A Northern Reunion
by JohnGreenGirl
Summary: All I want is for Arya to be reunited with Jon and Gendry...So I made it happen for myself since the show hasn't done it yet!
1. Winterfell

**Winterfell**

As soon as Jon's advance was spotted, the remaining Stark children, Sam, and Ghost gathered in the Winterfell courtyard to welcome him home.

Arya was bouncing on her toes with the excitement of seeing her favorite brother again. The last time she had caught sight of him, Jon was just a Brother of the Night's Watch. Now he was King in the North!

Sansa was curious to see this Dragon Queen Jon was bringing with him. Was she as beautiful as people reported, as even Petyr had said before Arya slit his throat? Did her beauty truly rival that of the stars in the night sky?

Bran sat quietly in his chair. He had rather big news for their brother— _no,_ cousin—but he was the calmest of the three. His sight as the Three-Eyed Raven let him know that everything would come into the open all in due time.

Sam was just excited to see his best friend again. Whereas Bran was quiet with the secret the two of them shared, Sam was practically bursting from it. Jon, his Jon, wasn't just King in the North—he was the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Ghost sat obediently next to Arya, but as Jon drew nearer and his scent carried on the wind, the direwolf raised his nose and began to sniff. His tail began to wag back and forth, kicking up the snow on the ground.

"The King in the North!" One of the guards bellowed as the gates opened.

"The King in the North!" Everyone in Winterfell echoed back, but none quite so heartily as Arya and Sam.

And there was Jon, in his heavy Northern robes, sitting so stoically on his horse, looking every bit the King they had just called him. Riding at his side was Daenerys Targaryen, swathed in furs and looking wide-eyed around the Starks' home.

Arya barely waited for Jon to dismount and help Daenerys Targaryen from her horse before she was running full speed to her brother. Ghost followed suit, running circles around Jon and Arya. You see, she had thrown herself into Jon's arms, and he had caught her about her waist and crushed her to him.

"I never thought I would see you again, Arya. I hear you've had some adventures." His words were muffled against her shoulder, but Arya could hear the smile in his voice. Oh, Jon rarely smiled, but Arya loved it when he did.

"Not as grand as becoming King in the North!" When Jon finally set her down on her own two feet, Arya found the Targaryen girl smiling at her. Despite being high-born herself, Arya never quite knew how to behave around other high-born. Did she call the Targaryen 'Your Grace'? Would that be undermining to Jon?

"Arya, this is Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. She is our strongest ally, along with the Wildlings, in this war."

Though she was not wearing a dress, Arya dipped into an approximation of a curtsy for the Dragon Queen. She figured that's what Sansa would do. Or maybe not. But Jon had called the Targaryen girl Queen, so Arya would, too. "Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell."

"Your brother talks often of you," Daenerys said with a kind smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Did you bring your dragons?" Arya couldn't help asking. By this time, Sansa had wheeled Bran to the reunion site and Sam had followed close behind. Sansa fixed Daenerys with one of her icy looks, as cold and solid as the Northern ground.

Before Daenerys could answer, there was a great _whooshing_ sound overhead. Arya looked up to see two huge dragons circling the sky. Didn't the stories say Daenerys had three dragons, though?

"I couldn't very well leave them in King's Landing," Daenerys confessed. "And we didn't make a stop at Dragonstone on our way to Winterfell."

"I heard my brother and my sister address you as a queen," Sansa said, getting that haughty look on her face where she jutted her chin out. "But we Northerners only recognize one true _King_."

"Sansa," Jon said pointedly. "Do not tell me you didn't still refer to the Lannisters as royalty while our brother Robb was King in the North. As Lady of Winterfell, you will do the same and set a precedent for how Queen Daenerys will be treated while she is our guest."

When Sansa did not reply, Jon's brow furrowed. "That is not a request as your brother. It is a command as your King."

This made Sansa lower her eyes while Arya and Bran smirked. "Yes, of course. I apologize, your Grace."

Arya almost snickered at Sansa, but she was soon distracted. Jon was leading Daenerys to the council room, surely to talk about strategies and alliances. Sansa, Bran, Sam, and Ghost followed, but Arya was preoccupied looking at all the people who had come with her brother and the Dragon Queen.

Unsullied soldiers, silent and each alike the other in their armor. The dragons, still circling overhead. The Dothraki, wearing little more than animal scraps even in the bitter cold of the North. In the mess of it all, Arya somehow neglected to see a rather familiar face.

"Hello again, little Arry." The voice made the hair on the back of Arya's neck stand up. No one had called her that since her days of masquerading as a boy. As she turned she saw Gendry, her Gendry, standing with a smirk on his face and his hands behind his back.

"Gendry!" Arya yelled, much louder than she meant to. So loudly that all of her siblings turned in time to see her swooped up into Gendry's arms and spun around as the pair laughed happily.

"Arya knows that man?" Sansa asked, feeling a pang of jealousy deep in her belly. No one had ever been so excited to see her as this 'Gendry' was to see her little sister.

"It seems," Jon said. "I only met him a few days ago."

When Gendry set Arya down in front of him, she kept a hold of his arms. Both started talking at the same time, their words running over each other.

"Where did you go?" Arya asked just when Gendry had said, "I never thought I would see you again."

"I went back to Flea Bottom."

"I've seen Hot Pie, he's still alive, too."

"Where have you been? Where was Hot Pie?"

"Why are you with Jon? I've been everywhere. Hot Pie was working in a tavern, he gave me food."

"Of course Hot Pie is. Ser Davos brought me to Jon. We went beyond the Wall."

"Beyond the Wall? Even I haven't been there!"

While Jon and Sansa watched the scene in confusion, Bran smiled softly. He titled his head back to address his siblings. "Arya and Gendry are old friends."

"How would you know that?" Jon asked his little brother.

"He's the Three Eyed Raven now," Sam said excitedly, speaking for the first time since Jon had arrived. "He has visions."

Jon's face crumpled into further confusion, his eyes swinging from where Gendry stood so close to Arya with his head bent over her small frame while they talked to Bran's dark and knowing eyes.

"I guess I've missed a lot," Jon said, shaking his head and continuing into his childhood home with Daenerys in tow.


	2. The Wolf and the Lion

**The Wolf and the Lion**

"You've cut all your hair off," Arya said from her spot next to Gendry. The two were rosy-cheeked and too-warm under all their winter layers. They had just finished sparring— _'putting your fancy war-hammer to the test',_ as Arya called it.

"And you've grown yours out," Gendry tugged on a lock of Arya's hair. Had her cheeks not already been red, he would have seen her blush. "I couldn't look too much like a Baratheon with Cersei the Mad Queen."

"So you made a war-hammer just like King Robert's and even put a stag on it?"

Gendry couldn't help but smile at Arya's teasing. She had changed a lot. She didn't look anything like a boy, even if she still wore masculine clothes.

"A man can't take a little pride in his father?"

"Your father killed Daenerys Targaryen's brother and now you'll be mining dragon glass on the ancestral Targaryen land," Arya pointed out. "Not entirely alike, are you?"

"I'm mining it for your brother," Gendry corrected. "A Stark in blood if not in name. The dragon glass just so happens to be under a Targaryen castled."

Unbeknownst to the two of them, their banter was being observed by the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa stood on the balcony that overlooked the courtyard, watching her little sister flirt with Robert Baratheon's bastard son.

 _Of course Arya would want a boy from Flea Bottom,_ Sansa thought to herself. _She never did like her highborn status._

Sansa did not realize that Tyrion Lannister had come to stand beside her until he spoke.

"Lady Sansa," her former husband's voice pulled her out of her head. "Just as observant as ever, I see."

"Lord Tyrion," Sansa smiled despite herself. It was her first smile since Petyr's death. She didn't miss him, not exactly, but a small part of her felt guilty that no one was mourning the man despite his sins. "It's nice to see you again."

"Is it? You left King's Landing without even saying goodbye." Tyrion's wink let Sansa know that the jab was an empty one. "I nearly died, you know. Cersei blamed me for Joffrey's death."

"That was obviously Lady Olenna's doing. Even I could see that, stupid girl that I was. I see you have no support for your sister's claim to the Iron Throne." Sansa nodded toward the Queen's Hand pin on Tyrion's chest.

"Nor your brother's, I'm afraid." This made Sansa laugh without humor.

"Jon doesn't want the throne. Haven't you seen the moon eyes he has for Daenerys Targaryen? He will gladly hand it to her. He never did want it, though. He just wants to do right by the North."

"He is a good king, though. You should be proud."

Was Sansa more proud or jealous? She wasn't sure. All she had wanted as a little girl was to be royalty. Just being a Stark had never been enough for her.

"I never thanked you, all those years ago, for saving me from Joffrey." Sansa had been holding onto the railing in front of her. It wasn't lost on Tyrion when she gripped that railing harder, her knuckles somehow turning even whiter than her pale skin.

"I was a stupid girl back then. I didn't realize how much danger I was truly in until Petyr Baelish handed me over to House Bolton. Marrying Ramsay showed me what Joffrey would have become had he grown up."

Though it was certainly not his place anymore, Tyrion covered Sansa's hand with his own. He was surprised to feel her hand shift so that her fingers could grip his hand tightly.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you the second time."

Sansa's eyes had drifted closed against the memories. She gave her head a shake to clear her mind.

"I'm not sure anyone could have helped me." They watched quietly as Arya and Gendry shared a cup of mulled wine.

"Tell me, Lord Tyrion, where do you eat your supper? Surely your queen does not always need you?" Sansa and Tyrion both knew very well that Daenerys usually took her meals with Jon. 'Strategizing', the two of them said, but they were terribly transparent.

"Believe it or not, she does allow me personal time on occasion."

"Then you shall take your supper with me tonight." Now Tyrion chuckled.

"You wear the title of Lady of Winterfell like a glove, Lady Sansa. Is it not too scandalous for me to dine in your chambers?"

"Why should it be? Were we not once married, Lord Tyrion? Besides, no one seems to care that my sister spends all of her time with a blacksmith of a royal bastard." Her voice held more venom than she meant it to. Sansa was trying to control her jealousy. Not only had Arya been on adventures while Sansa suffered, but she also had this handsome man at her beck and call, even if he was lowborn.

"Your brother is technically a royal bastard himself now." Tyrion smirked, proud of his own word play. It even drew a small smile from Sansa.

"Still," she said, finally drawing her hand away from Tyrion's. She was not unaware of how cold it felt without his warmth. "I expect to see you tonight."

"As you wish," Tyrion said, sweeping into a low bow while his eyes held a twinkle. "I will see you tonight, Lady Sansa."


	3. M'lady

**M'lady**

Arya liked to take Gendry for walks around Winterfell. Though her old friend had been beyond the wall with Jon, he hadn't explored the North of the actual Seven Kingdoms. Besides, they had time to kill before Gendry sailed back to Dragonstone with Queen Daenerys—a rough sea storm was preventing any ships from leaving port, and it didn't look like it would let up any time soon.

"I told you, didn't I?" Gendry asked, stopping to tug on a snow-laden tree branch. It made the branch shake, showering Arya in a miniature snow flurry. "I told you I would have to call you _m'lady_ one day."

Arya blushed, remembering the day she had begged Gendry not to part ways with her. This had only come about because Jon had held a meeting and, after being at Winterfell for a handful of days, had realized that Lord Baelish was missing.

 _"_ _Dead?" Jon had asked from his seat at the table in the great hall. He had no throne. He had no crown—yet. Sansa was commissioning one for him. Arya had seen her sketches, a simple silver crown with direwolves and black gems incorporated into it. Sansa said anything else would clash with all the black Jon wore._

 _Still, Jon was the King in the North, and he had questions._

 _"_ _By what means?"_

 _"_ _Execution, your Grace." Lady Mormont was never afraid to speak up even when the grown men lords stayed silent. Arya liked that about her._

 _"_ _Execution on what grounds?"_

 _"_ _Counts of murder and treason, you Grace." Jon nodded before turning to Sansa. She had sat as Regent of the North while Jon was at Dragonstone and King's Landing._

 _"_ _You held this trial and passed this sentence?" He asked. Sansa dropped her eyes for a moment before replying with a 'yes'._

 _"_ _And who carried out the sentence?" Jon was full of questions that day. Arya was about to step forward when one of the Northern lords spoke. Apparently, they did not like Lady Mormont to take too much attention from the King in the North._

 _"_ _Lady Arya carried out the execution, your Grace." Jon had looked between his sisters. Arya had lowered her eyes this time, because she knew Jon was thinking of what their father had always said, that the one to pass the sentence should swing the sword._

 _But Jon should have known that was not Sansa's way. Not when she had learned politics from Cersei and Petyr himself._

"You don't have to call me that," Arya argued while Gendry gently wiped the snow from her hair. She was not sure if his shows of affection were left over from their vagabond days together or something more. They were both older now, both in different roles. "I wish nobody did."

"Lady Arya of House Stark," Gendry couldn't help himself in saying. His smiling face was soon covered in a handful of snow. Once he swiped the snow from his eyes, he saw Arya's frowning face looking up at him.

"That's the face of a lady upset with a ruffian."

"It's the face of Arya upset with Gendry." The fact that she excluded their surnames was not lost on Gendry. It was clear she considered the two of them on the same level, no matter the circumstances of their births and lives.

"So, just Arya and Gendry, then?"

"Always just Arya and Gendry." He reached out and took her hand before starting their walk again.

"I think I like it better that way." Arya stared down at their clasped hands. She wished neither of them were wearing gloves, that she could feel the warmth of his skin. But the winter would not allow for that, not when they were walking through the woods.

They weaved their way aimlessly, somehow ending up in front of a weirwood tree. It was the only kind of tree in the forest still hanging on to their leaves. The blood-red leaves stood out almost blindingly against all the white snow.

The tree gave Gendry pause. Arya knew this well may have been the first Gendry had seen, as the trees were not so popular outside of Winterfell. She watched as he pulled a leaf from the tree and held it in his palm. It looked like a little spot of blood on his black glove.

"Will you fight in your brother's war?" Gendry asked, nodding towards Arya's sheathed blade at her hip.

"I don't intend on sitting by the fire and sipping tea while all of you have the fun." The smile Gendry gave her was almost sad.

"No, of course you don't. I guess it would be helpful to have a skilled executioner on our side." He had no idea. Arya hadn't yet revealed to him all the crazy twists and turns her life had taken after they were separated from each other.

Gendry turned his hand and let the weirwood tree leaf float down to the ground. It landed softly on the snow. His free hand now empty, Gendry took Arya's other hand so that he held both of hers in his.

"You know, Lady Brienne is a fighter, just like you are." This was true, but Arya still scrunched up her face.

"I've never liked how it sounded with my own name." _Lady Arya_. It had never fit her, not ever. She was happy to shrug it off.

"I can never call you m'lady, then?" Gendry pulled gently on her hands, so that she took a step closer to him. She was still so small. How could someone so small fight the monsters he had scarcely escaped beyond the wall?

It was easy for him to wrap his arms around her. This brought Arya closer to him, close enough that she could feel his warm breath on her face. Gendry did not wait for Arya to give him an answer.

Instead he brought her even closer, close enough for Gendry to bend his head and kiss her. The air was cold, but Gendry's mouth was warm on Arya's. This was her first kiss, and she was surprised with herself when she wrapped her arms around his neck. Arya came up onto her tiptoes, trying to bring herself closer to him despite their height difference.

She felt one of his hand in her hair, cupping the back of her head, the other on the small of her back and holding her as close to him as possible. Despite the cold winter all around, Arya felt a fire light inside her as the kiss drew on, so long and slow and sweet.

When, after what Arya was sure was several hours, they broke apart, Gendry kept her close and tipped his forehead against hers.

"You still can't call me 'm'lady'," Arya said, barely able to make her voice into much more than a whisper. "But I suppose you could call me _your_ lady."

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi. I'm shameless Gendrya trash. That is all.


	4. A Lord and a Lady

**A Lord and a Lady**

Sansa held Jon's crown between her palms, feeling the weight of it. She was happy with the outcome—it had been based off the breastplate of Jon's armor, so that two Stark direwolves faced each other in the center. Around the circlet were long-sword-like spikes. The black jewels glinted and glimmered the same way Jon's eyes did.

"It's a fine crown, Lady Sansa." She turned to see Tyrion leaning against her doorway and smiled. It felt good to have a friend, a true friend, in Winterfell.

"I hope it will fit. I had to use Bran's head as a measure, since Jon was away. I added a little to the width to account for Jon's curls." She wanted the crown to be unmistakably Stark _and_ Northern. Despite what others may think, and certainly what Petyr thought before his death, she didn't want anyone questioning Jon's kinghood on the matter of his being a bastard.

"I want him to have it next time he has to deal with Cersei," Sansa admitted. "I don't want her to ever have a chance to make a fool of him. I wish he had had the crown before meeting with her."

By this time, Tyrion had walked deeper into her chamber. Sansa placed the weight of the crown in his hands.

"Daenerys also needs a crown," Tyrion admitted. "All those braids in her hair won't suffice if there's another meeting."

They both knew their beloved monarchs wearing crowns would have little effect on Cersei. But, perhaps, it _would_ do something for the morale of the people they were leading. After all, half of ruling was putting on a good face and a good show.

"Tell me, Lord Tyrion, had Cersei not taken the throne for herself after King Tommen's death, who would it have gone to?" Tyrion sighed and placed the crown back on the little cushion on Sansa's table. He nodded toward the armchairs close to the fire, and the pair took a seat.

"Tommen named no heir," Tyrion said. "He fully expected to have children with Margery."

"He was a sweet boy," Sansa said, accepting the wine Tyrion poured for her. "I can't imagine how it was possible that he and Joffrey could be brothers."

Tyrion looked over his shoulder before speaking, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You know what they say about incest, Lady Sansa. One of Jaime and Cersei's children was bound to be insane."

The dark cast of his eyes gave away his thoughts. "You worry about your Queen and her own family lineage, don't you?"

"She is the last Targaryen," Tyrion said. "I cannot decide if that bode wells for her or not. I hear stories that Rhaegar was considered quite in his right mind, even if his decisions led to Robert's Rebellion. I hear other stories that Viserys was cruel and tipping toward insane, but he was killed by the Dothraki. We have little to go on for the Queen. Daenerys is still young. She could still go either way."

Sansa had not forgotten Tyrion's pragmaticism. Though her betrothal to him was meant to be a punishment and an embarrassment, she had often thought him the smartest, sanest person living in King's Landing.

"Is it true that Arya's blacksmith is one of King Robert's bastards?" Tyrion raised his eyebrows as he took a drink of wine.

"I wouldn't doubt it. He's got the Baratheon look about him. Much more so than any of the named Baratheon children ever did."

"Perhaps your queen will do House Stark a favor and legitimize him once she has the throne." Sansa truly did not mean to be so snippy. She couldn't help it. She held her tongue all day, but Tyrion felt comfortable enough to say these things to.

"A legitimate Baratheon may be used as grounds for another uprising," Tyrion pointed out. "It's likely you'll have no such luck, Lady Sansa."

She swished her wine in her mouth, considering his words.

"Where do you expect we'll all end up, when all is said and done?" Sansa cared about the Northern lords' opinions because they were Northern lords. She cared about Tyrion's opinions because of who he was as a person, not because of his name or position.

"Queen Daenerys will have the Iron Throne, gods willing. I cannot say I would mind much about the fate of my sister either way, though I would like to see Jaime come out of the other side of it. You will be Lady of Winterfell. Jon will still be King in the North, as Queen Daenerys has promised he may keep his station once the war is won. I have a sneaking suspicion your sister will be a blacksmith's wife."

Tyrion could not help himself with the little jab. Luckily for him, his smirking face brought out Sansa's own smile. He had to admit, though they were married briefly, he did have a beautiful wife in that short time.

"You think I will survive, then?" Sansa was not so sure of that herself some days. She thought, surely, she must have used up her nine lives by now.

"I told you once that you may well survive us all, Lady Sansa." The roaring fire colored Tyrion's hair Lannister gold, reminiscent of his siblings. "I still believe that to be true."

Sansa lowered her eyes demurely to her cup of wine. The dark liquid reflected a distorted version of her face back to her.

"You need not call me 'lady' in private, Lord Tyrion." It was a privilege and an intimacy Sansa had never allowed him even in their marriage. He smiled softly and shook his head at the girl before him.

"Then there's no need to continue to call me 'lord' in private…Sansa." Her stripped-down name felt oddly nice on his tongue.

"I suppose I won't then, Tyrion."


	5. His Queen, Her King

**His Queen, Her King**

Jon and Daenerys were subtler than Arya and Gendry—if only slightly. Their liaisons, at least, took place at night, away from the inquisitive eyes of Winterfell's residents. Ghost was their only witness, as he had not been far from Jon since his return to the North.

"He's a gentle beast," Daenerys said, stretching out past the edge of Jon's bed to sink her hand into Ghost's soft, thick fur.

"I never have to worry about him burning me to a crisp, at least," Jon teased, wrapping his arm around her waist to keep her steady. Ghost titled his head back, sinking into Daenerys' attention. The direwolf's red eyes drifted shut.

"Drogon let you pet him," Daenerys reminded Jon. "He's the biggest of my dragons and prone to have the worst temper. If he likes you, then so will Rhaegal and V…"

Her words fell away. It was just a handful of days since losing Viserion. Even when she watched Drogon and Rhaegal claim the skies of Winterfell, Daenerys still expected to see Viserion join them.

Daenerys felt Jon press a kiss on her shoulder. That kiss held the regret she would not let Jon speak. She didn't need to hear it, because she felt it like a heavy rock in her middle already.

"Rhaegal, anyway. He will accept you if Drogon does. Maybe you will ride Rhaegal one day. He's never had a mount." Daenerys meant it as a joke. Of course, no one other than a Targaryen had ever ridden a dragon.

"And perhaps one day I will happen upon a direwolf pup for you to call your own."

"I don't know. I'm rather fond of this one." Daenerys turned herself in Jon's arms so that she faced him. Jon ran his hand through the length of her hair. It was loose and unbraided for the first time since Jon had known her.

"The two of you _do_ match," Jon said, letting the silver-white strands of her hair fall from his fingers. This brought out a small, soft smile from Daenerys.

They always whispered, during their time together. There were more people here than there had been on their boat. As two monarchs, they certainly had the right to do as they pleased, though both felt their clandestine meetings needed to stay private.

She liked these nights where she snuck away from Missandei and Grey Worm and Tyrion to be with Jon. She liked, to her surprise, being Daenerys. Just Daenerys.

He hadn't called her 'queen' when they were alone since the day he pledged himself to her. And for some reason, she really liked that.

Just like she liked his soft curls. And his softer lips. His warm skin, his coal-dark eyes, his warrior's scars. Daenerys ran her finger gently down the scar that ran through his eyebrow and onto his cheek.

When she dropped her hand down to the scars on his chest, Jon caught her hand and pressed it against the scar over his heart. His heartbeat thrummed underneath.

She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. "I still can't believe Ser Davos wasn't just being dramatic."

Daenerys was referring to Ser Davos' slip of tongue and his claim that Jon had taken a knife in the heart. She had considered it hyperbole until she saw the scars crisscrossing his chest.

"For the Watch," Jon echoed the words from the story he had told her about the origin of his scars. He had told her about the blades they sunk into him, about how the snow beneath him was cold, but losing his blood was colder.

Despite the fire and Jon's body heat, Daenerys shivered. Mutiny haunted her nightmares. Though she never knew her father or Rhaegar, her bad dreams always showed her their deaths. How easily they fell.

Her eyes roamed the room, looking for anything to distract her from the chill of her deep, unspoken fear. They happened to land on the crown, Jon's crown, that Lady Sansa had brought to Jon today.

Daenerys untangled herself from Jon and walked to the table. Even with all the snow outside, her long-sleeved nightgown was flimsy. Jon watched the fire illuminate the pale fabric, silhouetting the curves of Daenerys' body beneath.

She took the crown between her palms, how she imagined one might at a coronation. Jon had not yet worn the crown. He wouldn't even try it on, not even with Lady Sansa's insistence. Daenerys stepped carefully over Ghost's sleeping form and kneeled before Jon on his bed.

Ignoring the bemused expression on Jon's face, she gently laid the crown over his curls. Much like herself, Jon had his hair loose on this night. She had been surprised, the first time she saw his hair out of the usual bun he wore it in, just how much hair he had.

"The King in the North," Daenerys said softly, softer even than the usual whisper she spoke in while spending secret hours in Jon's chambers. Her brows drew together. "What is that Northern saying again?"

Ser Davos had proudly— _braggingly_ —told Daenerys and Tyrion the story of Jon being named the King in the North. Jon smirked before repeating the words for her.

 _"_ _I know no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark."_

Daenerys smiled and settled herself into his lap. She quite liked the way he looked with the crown on his head. The black stones imbedded in it exactly matched his eyes in the firelight.

"I know no king," Daenerys repeated. Her voice hitched just a bit as Jon's hand slid under the hem of her nightgown. "But _this_ king."

She had changed it just a bit, because if she were being honest with herself as well as Jon, she knew well that she would never make the same exception for anyone else that she had made for him. Gods willing, once she reclaimed her birthright to the Iron Throne, Jon and his beloved North was the only kingdom she would recognize.

Jon's hands moving up her thighs made a new shiver run through her. "And I know no queen but this queen."

His lips on hers warmed her through, lighting a fire through her veins. Both of them forgot about the crown until Jon laid her back against his pillows and it began to slide from his head. Daenerys caught it just before it would have tumbled to the ground and placed it on the pillow beside her.

"And what was that other part?" She asked as Jon placed kisses from her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone.

 _"_ _From this day 'til my last day,"_ Jon breathed against her skin. She ran her fingers through his inky hair, letting her fingers become tangled in his curls.

"From this day 'til my last day," she repeated to him, just before Jon shifted between her legs to move within her. It was like the seal of a promise, their bodies coming together as one.

It certainly felt more true and melding than any oaths Daenerys had ever heard.

* * *

 **A/N:** I KNOW I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO LIKE IT, BUT I DO. I'm sorry. I just...can't help it. Anyway, here's Jon and Dany doing what they do best: eventually bangin'.


	6. We'll Join Our Houses

**'** **We'll Join Our Houses'**

Unless they were employing child soldiers that Jon didn't know about, he was certain the armor Gendry was slaving over was for Arya. No one else in Winterfell would need a set that small.

If Jon had turned the front piece over, he would have known it was without a doubt meant for Arya. His little sister had used her dagger to carve Gendry's name into the metal that would rest over her heart.

Arya already wore the thick, leather doublet that was so similar to the one that Jon wore. And the one Jon wore was already modeled their father's. Unlike Robb before him, the only piece of metal armor Jon wore was a breast plate. Jon's addition stemmed from a deep-seated desire to _never_ have his heart pierced by a blade again.

"Why am I not surprised that she asked you to make her a breast plate?" Jon asked good-naturedly, offering his bag of candied dried fruits to Gendry. Sansa had made them for him, remembering how much they both loved them when they were children.

As usual, Jon's huge direwolf— _Ghost, Arya calls him Ghost_ —was not far behind him. The beast nearly blended in with the snow as he trailed behind his master, save for those bright red eyes. When Jon stopped walking, Ghost sat down obediently beside him.

"She insists she's going to fight with you," Gendry said. He did not quite meet Jon's eye, though he did accept his offer of the fruit. It melted on his tongue, filling his mouth with a sweetness he had never tasted in the bland foods of Flea Bottom before. It wasn't hard to see why Jon still loved the candied fruit.

"I won't be able to stop her," Jon admitted. "I think you know as well as I do that Arya has a tendency to do as she pleases."

Gendry couldn't argue with that. He had known that since he met 'Arry'. So in response, Gendry only shrugged. Then he nodded, because he decided the shrug wasn't enough of an answer.

"You're right," Gendry said after a long moment, as it seemed Jon was waiting for him to say something. "I just want her to be safe."

The soft way he said it made it evident to Jon that Gendry was being sincere. Which spoke well for Gendry, because Jon had sought him out to get a feel for him in the context of his youngest sister.

Jon was embarrassed to admit that his own head had been so wrapped up with Daenerys that it took Sansa pointing it out that there was something going on between Arya and Gendry. The roll of Sansa's blue eyes when she told him was enough to make Jon feel like a shamed little boy.

Now he was out there doing his 'brotherly duty' as Sansa had called it.

 _"_ _We can't rely on Bran to do it, after all,"_ Sansa said. _"You practically have to pull words out of his throat now that he apparently sees everything."_

In an attempt to make himself a little less obvious, Jon had brought with him a list of what he thought they would need out of Gendry's working with the dragon glass. Jon pulled the little scroll from his belt and unfurled it.

"I've talked with the Hound and Sam and a few others who've seen the white walkers," Jon said, holding out the list to Gendry. "This is what we think we'll need out of the dragon glass, but I wanted your opinion, too."

Gendry's eyes darkened. He couldn't seem to make his arm lift to take Jon's scroll. Instead her shook his head, the shame evident on his face.

"I can't read, your Grace," he told Jon. Now it was the King in the North's turn to feel embarrassed. He hadn't considered that, despite their shared bastard parentage, Gendry would have been raised very differently from himself.

The only word Gendry knew was his own name, and that was only because he had seen it so many times while forging Arya's breast plate. Arya had carved the word before Gendry was even half done with the metal, and he had taken great care not to mar it.

"It's just blades for knives and daggers and arrowheads for some of the Free Folk," Jon swallowed against the lump in his throat. "A couple of swords, perhaps, if you've got the time once the dragon glass is mined."

Gendry nodded once again. "That sounds fair to me. A lot of the supply will depend on how much of the dragon glass can be mined in time."

They were working with an unknown timeline. The storm that still raged in the Northern sea was starting to set both Jon and Daenerys on edge. As long as that storm lasted, they were all sitting ducks at Winterfell.

Jon was having a terrible time trying to keep up his guise. He had no idea why he had agreed to seek Gendry out under false pretenses in the first place. This was Sansa's way, learned from Cersei and Littlefinger, not his own.

But he had felt lost, because he liked Gendry. He couldn't just throw Gendry against a wall with his hand at the boy's throat like he had Littlefinger. How did you approach someone you were almost positive you approved of?

So, Jon made the decision to drop it entirely. "I understand from Arya's stories that you've looked out for her before."

Again was that noncommittal shrug. Jon knew Gendry to be more confident than that, but perhaps if either of Daenerys' brothers still lived, he would feel the same under their gaze.

"We did what we could to survive, me, Arya, and Hot Pie." Gendry glanced down at his calloused hands. "I left her, though. I'm sure she's told you that. I wish I hadn't."

The remorse shone through on Gendry's face.

"She did alright for herself," Jon said, excusing away his regret. "Just don't leave her again."

"It doesn't bother you that I'm a bastard?" Gendry asked. Being a bastard was not the worst thing, he knew, but being an unacknowledged one certainly didn't do you any favors. His words made Jon chuckle.

"And I'm not a bastard? Being named a king doesn't change the fact that my last name is Snow."

"At least you have a last name," Gendry pointed out. "I've always been just Gendry."

"Now you're the last living soul from House Baratheon," Jon pointed out. "There's nobody in this world who can argue with you on that. Once this war is ended and Cersei's reign is through, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't use that name."

Jon watched Gendry's eyebrows shoot up. He figured the boy never expected he might one day be given legitimization. Honestly, Jon couldn't help the smirk from spreading across his lips.

"Why wouldn't you legitimize yourself, then?" Jon shook his head.

"I've already got a name. Snow suits me just fine. Take it or leave it, your chance at a name. It won't make any difference to Arya, and you know that. But I thought it might make a difference for someone who's never had a name."

Gendry smiled ruefully. Later in the day, when he was helping Arya try on the finished breast plate, he recounted the talk with Jon.

She laughed at his words as he slipped the breast plate over her head. Once her face appeared from the metal, Gendry was greeted with her bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

"What's so funny?" He asked, tightening the bands on her shoulders. This brought his face very close to her own, and Arya took the opportunity to kiss his cheek. Gendry was definitely more forthcoming with affection; after so long living her life as kill or be killed, Arya was having a hard time letting herself be soft and loving.

"Jon offered you the Baratheon name to make Sansa shut up," Arya said. She was certain she was right. Gendry had no surname to offer Arya, and she knew that would eat at Sansa and her need for grand airs.

"Then maybe I won't take it," Gendry teased. His attention was divided between Arya and the armor he had dressed her in. He spanned his hands over her waist, making sure the metal fit flush together.

Though his hands didn't actually touch her, Arya somehow felt the heat through the armor as if he had indeed touched her bare skin. He was not intending to be sensual; his blacksmith was definitely showing as he took her hand and spun her around to check the fit from all angles.

"How do you like your armor?" He asked, turning her toward the mirror in her chamber. Gendry had styled it after Lady Brienne's armor, the only female armor he had ever seen. At Arya's request, Gendry had embossed the front in a similar fashion that Jon's was. However, where Jon's showed the Stark sigil, Arya's showed winter roses after her aunt Lyanna Stark.

"It'll do," Arya teased after looking herself over in the mirror. "It will be like you're with me when I wear it, since your hands made it."

Gendry smiled softly at the girl before him. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth, so deeply that Arya forgot how to breath somewhere towards the end of it.


	7. The Pack Survives

**The Pack Survives**

While the remaining Stark siblings were together, and not flung to the far corners of the world, they tried to spend as much time together as possible. Around Jon's new duties as King in the North, that is. Sansa was almost always with him during those times. It seemed she couldn't quite let go of her role as regent, even with Jon back in Winterfell.

Somehow they always found time in the evenings, though. Jon was beginning to get antsy, though. The sea storm still raged, though Tyrion and Ser Davos insisted it had to blow itself out soon.

All four of them would huddle into Sansa's chambers. They were the largest in Winterfell, as they used to belong to Ned and Catelyn. Never mind that Jon was the king; Sansa had claimed the chambers as her own when Jon was away. He didn't mind, though. He didn't want them. He preferred his own, the chambers he had always had, close to the servant's stairs that now made it easy for Daenerys to sneak to him in the dead of night.

Sansa worked on the fur cloak she was sewing for Daenerys during their cozy nights together. It seemed that Sansa's social graces had gotten the better of her. Despite her cold greeting of the Dragon Queen, here Sansa was making a gift for her by hand. Her mother had taught her well, as did Cersei after her, that social appearances were a big part of the game.

"Surely it is colder up in the sky, with all the wind, when one rides a dragon," Sansa commented, though Jon shrugged.

"I wouldn't know. I've never ridden the dragons." He hadn't bothered to tell his siblings that he almost died when their mission went wrong. There was no need for them to worry over him, not when there was a war to be fought.

Arya and Bran often played cards. The youngest Stark girl took joy in the fact that she could still beat Bran, even with his new gifts.

"Why not just look to see what cards I'll play?" Arya asked. Bran shook his head.

"For the same reason you don't wear a false face every day," Bran said in that new, ever-calm way of his. "It serves a purpose, the visions. They aren't for play."

This made Arya blush and Jon raise an eyebrow. Sansa used her teeth to break her thread, having finished the seams on one side of the cloak, before answering for her sister.

"She hasn't told you yet? Arya has a bag of faces. She can wear them and pretend to be whoever she likes."

"To be fair," Bran said, "neither of you have told Arya about Rickon."

Sometimes, if only for a moment, the old Bran would almost show himself. Like in that moment, when he was defensive of Arya.

"What about Rickon?" Though she knew it was foolish, though no one had told her otherwise, Arya had assumed her youngest brother to be alive. Bran's words made both Sansa and Jon drop their eyes to the ground.

Arya's heart pounded in her chest. Somehow only Bran understood that she wanted to know _how_ and not just _what_. She knew before the words were spoken plainly that Rickon must be dead.

"He was killed by Ramsay Bolton when Jon retook Winterfell," Bran said. "Shot through with arrows."

A quiet fell over the Stark siblings. Thanks to his visions, Bran knew each of them better than he should given the years that separated them all.

"There's no need to add that name to your list," Bran said in a way that was almost, though not quite, teasing. "Sansa fed Ramsay to his own hounds."

"You've got a list?" Jon asked, raising his eyebrows at Arya. She felt like a little girl caught doing something wrong under his gaze.

"Cersei Lannister, the Mountain, Ser Ilyn Payne, and Melisandre." That last name had been dropped and added to Arya's list a few times. Haltingly, Jon had told them what she had done for him, but Arya added her name back to the list after listening to Gendry's stories.

"It's gotten considerably smaller," Bran added. "I see you've dropped the Hound."

"You can't kill allies with a war coming," Arya said. "We'll see afterwards."

Sansa sent Jon a sidelong glance. It was meant to convey that she thought of herself and Jon as the only normal ones left. Jon didn't want to ask who else had made the list, or how many his little sister had killed.

Almost always, Jon was still working while they all spent time together. He had a list in his lap, written in Daenerys' hand, that he was poring over. It made his mind spin that she was able to keep _ally_ and _lover_ so separate, at least for appearance's sake.

Just the night before, she was sleeping in his arms. That very afternoon, she had sent this note with Tyrion, suggestions for how to position their forces to deal with the Night King and his army.

She always left him smiling ruefully and shaking his head. Jon liked the way that their handwriting looked beside each other as he made his own notes alongside hers.

"This is really nice," Bran said. There was his true self, just for a moment. He gestured around the room. "Even with the sight I have as the Three-Eyed Raven, it was hard to believe we would be together again."

Still, Bran did not reveal what he knew about Jon. The _Bran_ part of him did not want to break the air of sibling comradery. The _Three-Eyed Raven_ part of him knew it was not time yet. And not his place. That job belonged to Samwell Tarly.


	8. A Plus G

**A + G**

 _The seas are calming. We expect to sail tomorrow._

Arya had overheard the words Tyrion spoke to Sansa. She couldn't understand why her sister insisted on spending so much time with a Lannister, even if Tyrion was arguably the only Lannister worth anything.

The words left her feeling cold in a way that had nothing to do with the winter weather. Arya's mind instantly went to the afternoon she had spent with Gendry.

 _She had led him up to the top of one of the towers, and together they sat and watched Daenerys' dragons play in the sky._

 _Arya sat so that she was leaning back against Gendry's chest, his arms around her waist. His head rested on her shoulder, the perfect position to whisper in her ear._

 _"_ _I'll be glad when summer returns," Gendry had admitted, pulling Arya closer to him when the wind picked up. Their shared body heat was the only solace in this swirling snow. For two people who had only known summer, the cold was a hard adjustment for Arya and Gendry._

 _"_ _Then it will be too hot," Arya mused. "Too hot to be sitting like this."_

 _"_ _And too hot for dead ice-men to be marching toward us," Gendry grumbled. His tone made Arya smirk, though he couldn't see it._

 _"_ _You're starting to sound like Jon," she teased. She felt him shake his head._

 _"_ _I'm not nearly as up in arms for this fight as he is. I'm just going to make things out of dragon glass."_

 _Arya settled in against him. Despite the cold wind and colder stone that they sat on, she wasn't quite sure she had ever been so comfortable as she was in Gendry's arms._

 _"_ _You don't like the snow at all?" Arya asked him. "I think it's pretty."_

 _"_ _Not nearly as pretty as you," Gendry told her, running kisses up the exposed skin of her neck. The warmth of his mouth sent shivers through her body. He smirked against her skin, nuzzling his face into her hair._

Arya had intended to go to her chambers, which to get to, she must first pass Sansa's. She was thankful that was so, or otherwise she likely wouldn't have known about the plans to sail until the morning. Just thinking of all the potentially wasted time made her mouth taste sour.

The Imp's words had Arya retracing her steps down the corridor. If she went to the other end of the hall, past Jon's chambers, she would reach the servant's stairs. This would take her down to the lower floors of Winterfell, where all of their many guests were staying.

It was late—so late that, if her mind weren't otherwise occupied, Arya may have questioned what, exactly, Tyrion Lannister was doing keeping her sister company at that hour. Arya herself was only up so late because she had been sparring with Brienne. These winter nights were darker than any Arya had ever known, and it was interesting and a challenge for Brienne. It was old hat to Arya, given her days of being blind.

Instead of questioning her sister, Arya beelined for the stairs. Perhaps she also should have questioned bumping into Daenerys going up the stairs while Arya made her way down. But she only mumbled an apology, barely remembering to tack on a 'your Grace' at the end.

When she reached the door she knew was Gendry's, Arya forewent knocking and opened the door just enough to slip through. What she found inside was a startled Gendry. He was already shirtless, ready for bed. Arya's arrival drew his attention away from the fire he was stoking.

"Arya…?" He said her name as a question, but let the rest of the sentence fall away when he saw the distressed look on her face.

"Did you know you're sailing tomorrow?" Rationally, Arya knew it would probably be news to him. Still, she was so upset by the news that her head felt muddled. She had just gotten Gendry back after trying to convince herself he was probably dead for years. This wasn't enough time.

Gendry's dark eyebrows knit together. A blush bloomed in his cheeks as he dropped his eyes. "No. You know I wouldn't be in that decision. I'm sure the servants won't be told until the morning."

Arya couldn't help herself and rolled her eyes at Gendry's useless shame. All this time later and he was still holding on to the idea that she would forever be held above him.

"I only know because I overheard Tyrion Lannister telling my sister as much." Arya tried to say it in a way that would be reassuring to Gendry. She had spent so long away from people she truly cared about that Arya often felt like her 'people skills' were covered in a thick layer of rust. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have known until the morning either."

Gendry held his hand out toward her. Arya closed the space between them and slipped her own hand into his. She was not touching him anywhere else, yet she could feel the body heat rolling off him in waves. Arya was surprised to find herself so aware of him and his exposed skin. It warmed her, chasing away the chill she had felt earlier.

He pulls her closer, close enough to wrap his arm around her and press his free hand into the small of her back. When Gendry dips his head to kiss her, Arya feels herself stretch onto her tiptoes to make up the difference. He kissed her as he always kissed her: long and slow.

By the time they broke apart, Arya's mind was muddled enough that she almost forgot about her sadness at the news of Gendry's leaving. But once she could see his face again, his bright blue eyes looking into hers, it all came rushing back to her.

"Come with me," Gendry said when Arya laid her head over his heart. "To Dragonstone."

"You know I can't," she whispered against his skin. "Jon needs people here. We are one of the most northern strongholds."

Gendry knew she was right. Even without the white walkers, he doubted Jon would be keen to the idea of his little sister leaving her childhood home to go with a man he hardly knew.

"I would like to stay here tonight, though, if you don't mind." That made Gendry chuckle. Arya felt the rumble of it in his chest against her cheek.

"It wouldn't be the first time we've spent a night together." Gendry's tease came with one of his mischievous smirks.

In another life, Arya had slept on the hard ground, her back flush with Gendry's. That was for survival, though. Arya wasn't so sure this night was all that different, though. She would need the memories of Gendry to bolster her through the winter storms in his absence.

Arya smirked back at him and gave a small shake of her head. "Hopefully we won't have to fear for our lives every second of it this time."

Gendry's bed was not nearly as big as Arya's. Really, it was little more than a cot. Arya suddenly felt bad. Never had she thought about how different her living quarters were from the other inhabitants of Winterfell. She almost wasn't sure that they would both fit on it.

Arya shook her head again, this time to remind herself to be grateful for even this. Last time she was with Gendry they were hungry, tired, dirty, in perpetual danger. The fact that they could both stand in a warm room with full bellies and nobody hunting them down was practically cause for a feast.

With a tug on Gendry's hand, Arya led him over to the little bed. _It will be cozy_ , Arya decided. Surely it would be warmer than her own bed, which had never felt like too much before, but now couldn't seem to retain any warmth in its vastness.

"This is very scandalous of you," Gendry said. He was used to King's Landing, even if he did grow up in Flea Bottom. Propriety was the most important thing in that place.

"We're both orphans," Arya reminded him. "Who is to say what is and isn't appropriate for us to do?"

"Oh, I don't know…maybe your brother, the King in the North." This made Arya giggle.

"He knows better than to try to boss me around." Jon had learned long ago that Arya had a penchant for ignoring those looking out for her.

"Still. He could have me executed, if he wanted to." Arya found herself in Gendry's arms again, being gently lowered toward the bed. It was small, but the mattress was just as soft as her own when Arya's back met it.

"No, he wouldn't. He needs the dragon glass too much." Even if Jon knew Arya was with Gendry at this late hour, she knew well he would never execute a man for something so slight as caring for his sister. His name was Snow, but he was Stark in blood, and they had more honor than senseless killings.

"There are other blacksmiths, surely," Gendry argued, planting a kiss at the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

"None that have pledged themselves to our cause."

"Any man who wouldn't pledge himself to you is a madman if I've ever known one."

She kissed him then, pulling him tight against her so that they sunk into the bed. Arya had never known that the feel of someone's skin could be a need, like hunger or shelter. She let her hands trail over his shoulders, down his back, around his sides to his muscled stomach. Everywhere her eyes had touched earlier, she made sure her fingertips felt now.

"Arya," Gendry breathed her name against her own mouth. She wasn't sure what had just come over her then, but she didn't have the strength to fight it. Instead, she let herself sink into the feeling of Gendry's fingers loosening the lacing on the front of her leather doublet.

Never had she felt this craving for another person. Arya let him peel away the doublet, leaving only her thin undershirt between them.

"Are you sure about this?" Gendry asked her, slowly lifting his eyes from the filmy shirt to meet her own.

"We're not promised another time," Arya reminded him. Beyond that night, there was no way for either of them to know what would come next. For that night, at least, they were in control.

That seemed to be all the encouragement Gendry needed. Arya closed her eyes and let herself relax into his hands roaming on her bare skin, sliding her undershirt over her head. His mouth left little burning embers along her body.

Arya was surprised to find that they fit quite nicely in the bed, so long as Gendry was above her. He held himself so that she got all of his warmth and none of his weight. Nothing but the thick fur blanket covered them, cocooning them from the ever-present chill the air had taken on.

Here, Arya began to understand Sansa's silly little love stories she had always obsessed over in their girlhood. Both girls had been told all their life by Old Nan that to meddle with a man only brought a woman pain, but Arya knew now those were empty warnings.

Gendry was gentle with her, like she herself was made of something precious and fragile. His touch and his mouth were slow and soft. Though Arya had never flown, she was fairly certain she knew exactly how that would feel now.


	9. A Trueborn King

**A Trueborn King**

Arya woke up warm the next morning, her cheek pressed against Gendry's chest so that she felt his heartbeat underneath. When she tried to rise from the bed, Gendry gently pulled her back down.

"Not yet," he said, his voice husky with sleep. Arya obliged, running her fingers through the hills and valleys of his body. She did not want to leave him, not even as the weak sunlight tried to light the heavy clouds outside.

Jon woke fitted between Daenerys and Ghost, the former's hair invading his pillow and tickling his nose. He brushed it away and pulled Daenerys in closer to him. In her sleep, Daenerys took his hand and cuddled it against her cheek, making Jon smile.

Sansa woke with a gift from Tyrion on her bedside table. She didn't know when he had time to commission such a piece, but she was treated to a shimmering bracelet of translucent blue stones that exactly matched her eyes.

The note that accompanied the gift brought a bright smile to Sansa's face.

 _For the Lady of Winterfell, my dear former wife, Sansa._

Bran woke before any of the other Stark siblings. He was the one to wake Samwell Tarly, careful not to rouse Gilly or Little Sam.

"Today is the day you tell Jon," Bran whispered to Samwell. Cheeks lifted in a smile, Samwell nodded his head excitedly. "But not until Daenerys Targaryen and her court sail from our shores."

"Oh, of course," Sam agreed. "No need to make it complicated."

And Bran almost smiled, because he knew that no matter if Daenerys was there when Jon was told or not, everything was about to get complicated.

Once the two resident monarchs were truly awake and dressed for the day, Winterfell began to buzz with activity. Daenerys' court had settled into Winterfell while the sea raged, and now all must be lifted from Northern ground back to the Dragon Fleet.

Bundled in her fur cloak, Arya helped Gendry carry cargo back to the ships. For Gendry's benefit, Arya pretended not to notice he was handing off only the lightest boxes to her as they went back and forth between Winterfell and the coast.

They snuck kisses and embraces while alone in the cargo hold.

"Come with me," Gendry tried to convince her. Everything in Arya wanted to say _yes_ , but she forced herself to shake her head. He took her face between his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead.

"I know," Gendry said with a sad sort of smile. "But after…"

"I'm yours. I'm sure we'll make a visit or two. We'll need that dragon glass, after all."

It was a wonder that the fleet was stocked before the noonday meal with how often Gendry and Arya stopped to love each other.

Inside the stronghold of Winterfell, Sansa presented the Dragon Queen with the cloak she made for her as a goodbye gesture.

"The winter's going to touch everyone eventually," Sansa said, presenting the cloak to the silver-haired woman standing next to her older brother. "A Northern cloak made by Northern hands, to keep you warm and remind you of our goodwill and friendship."

Jon's smirk and raised eyebrows were not lost on Sansa. She gave her brother a sweet, innocent smile. Just because he was enamored with the Targaryen girl didn't mean the rest of the Starks had to be.

"I will wear it proudly," Daenerys promised. "And fondly remember my Northern allies."

As she said it, though, Daenerys met Jon's eye and smiled softly at him. This sight caused Sansa to purse her lips for just a moment before she remembered to smooth her features. Sansa glanced to Daenerys' side, where Tyrion stood. He was looking at the pair of monarchs with a look Sansa could only call _cautious._

It was obvious that Daenerys and Jon had eyes only for each other. After a beat, Tyrion turned his head to Sansa and smirked.

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion said to her in that lazy way of speaking he sometimes had. "Would you like to see our fleet before we leave your shores?"

Sansa only nodded. Even if she had spoken, she doubted that Jon or Daenerys would have noticed. Instead, she fell in line beside Tyrion, pulling her own fur cloak tighter around herself as they stepped into the winter air.

The wind whipped Sansa's long red hair around her face and shoulders. Tyrion's curls were also jostled. They stopped walking just short of the sea, the waves lapping gently along the sand and rocks. Had Sansa not seen the intense storm just days before, she would not have believed it was the same sea she watched now.

"I will be without a companion again once you sail," Sansa said softly. "The lords listen to me only because Jon named me Lady of Winterfell. The Tarly man is Jon's friend. Arya has always been much closer to our brothers. You're one of the only true friends I have, Tyrion."

"I could say the same of you, Sansa. I wear the Hand pin, but my name proceeds me always. It's always been the way of the world that people are hesitant to trust a Lannister."

They made an interesting pair, standing on the coast swathed in their winter clothing, watching Arya climb up onto the railing of the ship. Gendry stood close behind her, ready to catch her if she slipped. Though the ships were still docked in the shallows, the wind was stronger over the sea.

It tangled Arya's hair and pulled at her cloak. She was such a tiny wisp of a human being that Sansa was surprised the wind didn't lift her from her feet and away from Gendry's grasp. After all, that's what seemed to happen to Arya after their father's death: carried away with the wind, and just recently blown back home.

"Oh, don't glare at them so, Sansa," Tyrion said with a chuckle. She glanced down at him to see him shaking his head ruefully at her. "They're just children yet. Somebody has to laugh and play in these dark days before we all forget how."

"I'll be glad to be rid of all of this," Sansa murmured. "The winter. Dead men marching toward the living."

"Won't we all."

They were not alone on the shore for long. The wheels of Bran's chair crunching over the sand alerted them that they would soon have company. Sansa glanced over her shoulder to see Samwell Tarly pushing Bran's chair for him, with Gilly carrying the baby close behind.

"Jon said we should see Daenerys off, to wish them all safe travels," Sam explained. He was not much one for titles. He always forgot to call Jon 'king' and Daenerys 'queen'. Sansa quite liked that. She mused it was because Sam saw people, not social standing.

"Yes," Tyrion said smoothly, "but our departure will depend on those two love birds drawing their eyes away from each other to remember to lower the gangplank so that we might board."

Sansa blushed for her sister then. She knew this teasing of Tyrion's was more for her benefit than it was for Arya. Sansa was not like Samwell—social standing was always in the forefront of her mind, even if she did admire Sam's ability to see past it. She could not.

"Arya!" Jon's voice startled Sansa. She was still not used to having him back. Never in all her life did she expect to see any of her siblings again. "Come ashore!"

They all watched as Arya jumped from the ledge of the boat to be caught by Gendry, then running ahead of him. She needed Gendry's help to lower the gangplank, though, so that they could descend from the boat. Arya led the way down, hopping over the lapping gray tide that matched her eyes at the end of the gangplank.

Gendry was close behind, but they both stopped just short of Jon. He had led the way down to the shore, but Daenerys and the rest of her people were trailing down to join them. So was a large group of Northern lords, to flesh out the Starks' farewell party for the send-off.

This was it. The Targaryen forces were leaving Winterfell, hopefully not for good, if everyone played their cards right and the war with the dead ended in Jon's favor.

Goodbyes were in order, much to everyone's chagrin.

Tyrion gave Sansa a saucy bow and kissed the back of her hand. It made Sansa giggle despite herself. She was surprised by the sinking feeling she felt when Tyrion walked away from her to take his place at Daenerys' side. She had not realized she would so immediately miss the man she once begrudgingly married.

Gendry hugged Arya chastely. They had said their proper goodbyes in the hold of the ship. Still, he couldn't help himself and snuck one last quick kiss. She was happy that he lingered beside her, rather than boarding the ship again with the other Targaryen-loyal workers.

Sansa and Arya both dropped into deep curtsies in front of Daenerys before she tucked her hand into Jon's elbow and allowed him to lead her onto her ship.

"When the time comes," Daenerys said softly so no others could hear, "and your dead men have made their way to this place, I expect to see you at Dragonstone."

"There's no other place I would rather be." Jon's eyes lit up in a way that made Daenerys' heart ache to leave him. If there were not people around, no eyes to bear witness, she would have kissed him. Instead, she only gave his arm a squeeze, hoping he would know all that she meant by the small gesture.

Daenerys peeked up at Jon and took a deep breath. They, too, had a private goodbye in Jon's chambers that morning. Still, Daenerys wasn't ready. Even as she slipped her hand out of the crook of Jon's elbow and walked to the bow of her ship, she felt everything inside of her want to run back to Jon.

Instead, Daenerys pulled her role as queen back on like a cloak and took her place at the head of her ship.

Gendry was the last to board, walking up the same gangplank he had lowered with Arya. Then he raised that gangplank and waved. Arya returned the wave and smiled, even though her heart broke to see him go.

The waves did what waves are meant to do: pulled the Dragon Fleet away from Northern shores. The Starks were left largely alone in Winterfell once again.

Following their king's lead, the send-off party watched the ships until they disappeared over the curve of the horizon. Nobody moved until Jon turned to lead the way back.

Evening was harder to judge now that winter had fallen over the land. It was always either pitch black outside, or some variation of 'less dark'. The sun had little power over the clouds. Surely it was evening, though, when Sam knocked on Jon's chamber door.

At least, it was evening according to Ghost, who had started to whine for his dinner even though Jon didn't feel a stitch of hunger.

"Here, boy," Jon muttered, giving Ghost his own plate of uneaten food from the midday meal before opening the door for his old friend.

"Sam," Jon said, pulling the other young man into a hug. "I haven't got to see you, truly see you, since you've been here."

The two had eaten meals together in the Great Hall, sat in the same room together during discussions—but they hadn't had time to sit down together.

"Oh, you've been busy," Sam smiled and shrugged away Jon's words. "That's the life of a king, isn't it?"

Jon laughed and pulled Sam into his chamber. If he noticed how nervous Sam was, Jon didn't let on. While Jon took a seat and scratched Ghost's head, Sam ran his hand over the tips of the crown on Jon's table.

Those black jewels were more fitting than Sansa could have known, but Sam imagined dragons where the direwolves were.

"I've got something to tell you," Sam said, finally managing to take a seat across from Jon. Ghost licked Sam's hand, as if the direwolf were encouraging him.

"Oh?" Jon asked, raising his eyebrows. "What's that?"

"W-when I was with the maesters," Sam stumbled over his words. "I came across some information that I think you should know. I think it will be important, if not right now, then later."

"Information in the Citadel?" Jon asked. This must have piqued his interest—he leaned across the table, closer to his friend. Sam knew Jon would want some kind of information about the white walkers, and he hoped what he had to say would not disappoint.

"What is your name?" Sam asked. He couldn't think of any other way to break the subject. Jon's eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"Jon Snow." Sam shook his head softly at Jon's answer before asking another question.

"Who was your father?"

By now, Sam could see how on edge Jon was, but he answered the question anyway. "Eddard Stark."

Again, Sam shook his head. "Who was your mo—"

Jon cut Sam's third question short. "No more questions. What is this, Sam? Tell me plainly. Please."

Sam knew there was no reason for Jon to be pleading with him, not with his position, but still. It put him a little more at ease.

"Bran has seen this. In his visions. And Gilly, she found it on a scroll in the Citadel."

" _What_ is it?"

"I didn't think anything of the scroll until I talked to Bran, but he knew I had seen the scroll and that I would understand, and…"

Sam had to take a moment to catch his breath over his heart slamming in his ribcage. Jon's face was so perplexed and eager that Sam might have found it amusing if the context were different.

"The scroll in the Citadel showed that the marriage between Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell was annulled so that he might marry someone else. He married Lyanna Stark."

Jon raised his eyebrows again, asking an unspoken question. It was plain on his face: _What does this have to do with me?_

"Are you going to tell me there's another Targaryen in this world other than Daenerys?" The way Jon said it showed he meant it as a joke. An impossibility. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew that Daenerys was the last Targaryen.

"Well… yes."

"Who?"

"You, Jon," Sam said slowly. "You weren't born Jon Snow. You were born Aegon Targaryen…the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne."

Jon stared at Sam like he was waiting for a punchline, but there was none. That was it, laid bare. As the news settled over Jon, all the color drained from his face.

"You are sure, Sam?"

"As sure as anyone can be. Bran can confirm it for you. He has seen it with his true sight."

Jon's voice had dropped into a whisper and Sam followed suit.

"Who else knows?"

"Only us three."

"We will keep it that way." Jon stood then and tugged gently on Ghost's ear. The direwolf stood to follow his master. From Jon's own chamber window, Sam watched his friend and his beast break a path through the snow, heading straight for the forest.

Bran had given Sam this job, and his earlier excitement over the task turned to sour bile in his throat. It had been spoken now, the truth was out into the world.

All anyone could do, whether they knew it or not, was wait to see what Jon would do with the information bestowed upon him.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm sorry I made you read Jonerys in this fic, I know a lot of people are not fans of the pairing, but I was keeping the story within the canon of the show! :) I am not entirely sure how far I will carry this story... for now, I have decided this is a tentative ending place for it. Thank you to all of you who have read it! Your time and thoughts mean the world to me.


	10. Brothers

**Brothers**

The departure of Daenerys Targaryen and her forces left Jon brooding and Arya sullen.

"There's too many feelings coming through lately," Sansa grumbled as she pushed Bran's chair through the snow. It had become so deep that it was difficult for Bran to push it himself, but he still liked to sit beside weirwood trees, though he was trying to refrain from using his sight. "It's going to complicate things."

"It may not," Bran tried to sound mild. He had the same concerns, but he didn't want to voice them. The fact that everything moving forward involved his remaining siblings worried him deep down. Bran felt sick just thinking about seeing something terrible he could not change.

"You should know better than the rest of us, shouldn't you?" Sansa said sourly, settling Bran's chair and pulling his cloak and blankets close around him. Despite her mood, she still fidgeted like a mother hen over him until she was satisfied he would manage to stay warm enough. "I'll be back in an hour to bring you in for dinner."

Bran watched Sansa as she walked away. His sister held herself just as ramrod straight and proud as ever. She put on a good front.

He had asked Sansa to bring him out there so he could think. Jon's turn in temperament was what had Bran shying away from his powers. He didn't intend for it to hurt or upset Jon.

The part of Bran that was still _him_ , still a young boy, had hoped Jon would be happy to learn he wasn't a bastard.

Instead, it had done the opposite. The whole thing left Bran sighing and rolling his eyes at the weirwood tree. Bran held his hand out and let the snowflakes pile up into a miniature mountain in his palm. He was so focused that he didn't realize Jon had walked up behind him until Jon spoke.

"Is your heart set on staying in this spot, Bran?" When Bran tipped his head back to look at Jon, he already had his hands on the handles of his chair. Jon smiled at Bran, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I suppose I would end up a snowdrift if I sat still too long." Jon nodded and tipped his chair slightly, to free the wheels of the snow. Together, they made a path toward the forest.

"I'm sending Arya to Dragonstone," Jon said. "I've received news some of the dragon glass we'll need is ready."

"She'll enjoy that." Bran didn't need the sight to know Arya would spend a lot her time at the Targaryen stronghold with a certain blacksmith.

It had been nearly two weeks since Daenerys had sailed away from their shores. Gendry and his crew worked fast, then, to already have some weapons ready.

Jon waited until they were deep within the trees before he spoke again.

"I've been talking to Sam," he said. "Are you sure what you've seen is true?"

Bran kept his gaze straight ahead, but he nodded. "I can't see anything that isn't certain, Jon."

The sigh that came out of Jon sounded like it started down in his toes. "I don't look much like an Aegon."

When Bran lifted his hand to settle it over Jon's own, both were surprised. Bran turned his head to meet Jon's eyes.

"I think you know I cannot speak for Sansa…but for me and Arya, you will always be Jon. You will always be our brother."

Jon nodded, but he lifted his gaze up above Bran's head. He seemed to be staring at nothing, his dark eyes hard yet unfocused.

"I don't think we should tell either of our sisters…for now. We have more to focus on right now than who has a claim to the Iron Throne. I don't want it, anyway."

"Yes," Bran agreed. "The dead—"

His sentence was cut off by Arya's voice. "Jon! Jon!"

She skidded to a halt in front of them, sending a spray of snow onto Bran's lap.

"What is it, Arya?" Jon was already reaching for his sword, assuming the worst, no doubt, Bran was sure.

"Jaime Lannister is at Winterfell. He says he wants to talk to you…about Cersei. Sansa already allowed him entrance. I told her to wait for you, but she never listens to me."

This was news indeed, something not even Bran himself would have predicted. Jon turned Bran's chair over to Arya to run back to Winterfell through the snow. Arya was out of breath from her own trek, and she slowly pushed Bran's chair back through the path Jon broke earlier.

"I never thought I would see the day that Jaime Lannister would have to beg for counsel with our brother, with Jon, King in the North." The pride was evident in Arya's voice.

Here, at least, Bran knew he was correct without the sight: Arya would never stop supporting Jon.


	11. Home

**Home**

Arya sailed for Dragonstone just one day after Jaime Lannister arrived at Winterfell. She was almost sad to go, if only because she took satisfaction in the fact that Jaime had betrayed Cersei. In all truth, though, her excitement to see Gendry was stronger than her amusement over this Lannister feud.

"You'll not make the ship go faster by pushing on the railing, Lady Arya." Jon had sent Samwell Tarly to chaperone her on the visit. Aside from his siblings, Sam was the one that Jon trusted the most.

While Arya was travelling to Dragonstone to collect weapons, Sam was travelling to meet with Daenerys Targaryen in Jon's place. Sam was smart, Arya would give him that, but he was also stuttering and slow to speak due to his own shyness. He was more of a listener. She hoped the Dragon Queen wouldn't run completely over Sam without Jon to do his own negotiating and strategizing.

"Is that what they taught you in the Citadel?" Arya teased. She was in too good of a mood for anything less than fun. "Sailing?"

Sam was not wrong, though. Arya stood at the bow of the ship, leaning over the railing to watch the schools of fish swim by below the water. "Jon says the seas are likely to freeze over when winter hardens. Do you suppose that's true? All this water, turned to ice?"

"I suppose anything might be true, Lady Arya. We are preparing for a war against dead men." She did not like the way he called her 'Lady Arya'. She wished Sam was more familiar with her, so that he might drop titles, the same way he only ever called Jon by his name and never 'Your Grace'.

Somewhere behind the pair, one of the crew members called out, "Land!"

Arya's head shot up to take in the rocky, jutting island of Dragonstone. They were still far enough away that it looked like a little outcropping of rock on the horizon, but it was land. The land where she would see Gendry again.

She wondered if he knew she was coming. Jon had sent a raven to Daenerys, of course. Those two were always sending ravens to each other. It was a wonder that the poor birds hadn't died of exhaustion yet.

Her Gendry didn't read, though. She was determined to teach him, but that, like so much else, would have to wait until the war ended. Unless someone had bothered to tell him about their impending arrival, Gendry would have no idea. Arya did not take her eyes off Dragonstone as it grew bigger and bigger.

They were still not quite docked, still a couple of feet from truly being on the shore, when Arya climbed onto the railing.

"Lady Arya!" Sam shouted after her. He made a grab for her cloak, but he was too late. Arya had already kicked off from the railing, jumping the rest of the way instead of waiting for the gangplank to be lowered.

She landed just short of the shore, her boots splashing into the tide.

"I'm fine!" Arya called back to Sam, running across the shore to the cavemouth she was certain was the opening of the mine. It was cold at Dragonstone, but it wasn't snowing as it was in the North. Her boots sinking into the sand felt much different than the way they felt sinking into the snow at home. It was a sensation that Arya would later associate uniquely with Gendry. As she got closer to the mine, she heard voices coming from within, one of which she knew well.

Even with all the torches inside the mine, it was still rather dark. It took Arya a few moments before she spotted Gendry deep inside overlooking a pile of freshly mined dragon glass. Arya pushed through the workers, ignoring their disgruntled murmurings.

Gendry had his back turned to her and did not realize Arya was there until she wrapped her arms around his waist.

"What the—" One peek over his shoulder and Gendry's question fell away in his throat. "Arya!"

"I'm here on special orders from the King in the North." Arya couldn't have hidden the smile from her face if she tried. That smile only grew wider when Gendry angled himself within her embrace to kiss her right there, in front of his workers.

Someone shouted something to Gendry about not forgetting his quotas just because a lady had bothered to look his way. Arya felt Gendry's hand leave her waist just long enough to wave that person away.

"You should really go greet Queen Daenerys," Gendry told her when they broke apart, but Arya only smirked.

"She's not who I came to see." Her tone was saucy as she smiled up at him again. Gendry laughed despite himself, though he shook his head at her.

"Go!" He told her. "I won't be going anywhere."

Arya sighed and untangled herself from Gendry's arms. Aside from Gendry's urging against her trepidation, Sam had appeared in the mouth of the cave.

"Lady Arya!" Sam called, making Gendry snicker behind her. Arya swatted him playfully. "Come on! We need to go speak with the Queen!"

Unlike Sansa, who still refused to call Daenerys 'queen' other than to her face, Sam used her title as soon as Jon revealed he had pledged the North to the Targaryen cause. Sam really would follow Jon anywhere, Arya was sure.

"I'm coming," Arya grumbled, making her way back through the cave.

Arya greeted Daenerys with wet, sandy boots and Gendry's kiss still burning on her lips. She curtsied before Daenerys and rose to a knowing smile on the Dragon Queen's face.

"I suspect your brother didn't send you here to talk over our war. I think you'd find the mines more entertaining than our round-table discussions."

There was no arguing that on Arya's part. She curtsied a second time and thanked Daenerys before following her order as if she were Arya's true queen.

When she returned to the mine, one of the workers sighed. "Here we go again. Move out of the way, boys."

Arya retraced her steps, hopping over tools and piles of dragon glass. Only this time, Gendry wasn't as deep inside the mine, though Arya hadn't noticed. She didn't realize he was in a different part of the mine than she had left him in until a strong arm caught her around the waist.

"That talk didn't take long." Gendry pulled her into the little 'room' of the mine he was working in.

"I got pardoned," Arya explained, smiling up at Gendry. She hadn't noticed before—how, she hadn't a clue—that Gendry was working shirtless. It was certainly much warmer in the mine than it was outside. All of the body heat inside made it feel like a muggy summer's day, despite the harsh winter winds blowing off the tides outside.

She ran her hand across his chest while Gendry wrapped her arms around her. They had a considerable amount more privacy here, tucked away in this little corner, than they had earlier when they were out in the open.

The privacy seemed to make Gendry bolder. It was such a tiny space, and Arya was sure the jagged rocks pressing into his bare back couldn't have felt good, but he pulled her even closer to him anyway.

"I missed you," he murmured against Arya's ear.

Arya didn't bother to remind him it had only been a handful of weeks, compared to the years they had spent apart. She felt it, too, the heavy weight of his absence when they were away from each other.

In those weeks apart, Gendry's black hair had grown out a bit. He had told Arya he had cut it off after returning to Flea Bottom, because, as all those in Westeros knew, House Baratheon was known for their black as night hair.

Here, hidden away on Dragonstone, Gendry had neither the need nor the time to keep his hair close cropped. There was dragon glass to forge, after all.

"I'm afraid you'll be bored here until dinner time. I'll be out on the beach soon, to work on the weapons."

"I used to watch you work all the time," Arya reminded him. She liked the rhythm of forging—the molten look of a sword when it was pulled from the flame, the hiss as it was dunked into water, the clang of the mallet that gave it shape.

"Well, now you can watch me curse the gods for creating dragon glass in the first place." The dragon glass was a material Gendry had, obviously, never worked with before. His first few attempts were disastrous. He had to work slowly with it since he still wasn't used to it, which was endlessly frustrating for Gendry.

And Arya _did_ watch Gendry curse the gods. There was one bit that made her giggle uncontrollably, sitting on her little seat of rocks, when Gendry became so frustrated that he threw his hands up in the air and walked to the waves lapping at the beach. He stared at the ocean in his frustration, hands on his hips, for several long moments before returning to his work.

"Stupidest damn metal," he mumbled under his breath, only making Arya laugh harder. That is, until Rhaegal swooped low over the island and gave an earsplitting screech as he chased after Drogon. _That_ spooked Arya enough that she nearly fell backwards off of the rock ledge she was perched on.

Now Gendry was the one laughing. "Hard to get used to, aren't they?"

Honestly, Arya had all but forgotten about the dragons. Which was silly of her, considering Daenerys' reputation as the 'Dragon Queen'—of course there were dragons where the Dragon Queen was.

"Do they always do that?" Arya asked, tipping her head back to watch the two dragons chase each other through the sky. Somehow, it was obvious they were playing, despite their screeching and nipping at each other's wings and tails.

"They're like huge puppies that can fly and burn you to a crisp," Gendry said. "Wait until you see them fish."

Gendry worked until the sun was setting. Then, a bell sounded from the mine and a man hollered that it was 'quittin' time'.

Arya made the trek up the long set of stairs leading to the castle with Gendry. Everything was different here at Dragonstone.

The smell of sea salt in the air. The screech of the dragons flying through the air. The sand clinging to her boots. Gendry beside her, Arya's hand tucked demurely in the crook of his elbow.

 _Sansa would be proud to see me behaving like a proper lady_ , Arya thought to herself, making herself smile.

It was different, entirely different, but with Gendry there beside her, it still felt like home.


	12. Beloved

**Beloved**

Daenerys gave Arya grand chambers for her stay at Dragonstone.

"Your brother is King in the North," Daenerys had said. "That makes you a princess of the North."

 _Lady. Princess._ Arya didn't like either word, though she knew Sansa would have absolutely melted to hear herself called a princess.

Naturally, though Arya remembered the manners Catelyn had taught her and thanked Daenerys for the accommodations, she also bucked her princess chambers in favor of spending her nights in Gendry's own little room.

"No one's going to question what I do," Arya told Gendry, lounging on the fur rug in front of the fire. "Daenerys Targaryen has named me a princess. Who can argue with that, here, in her own home?"

Arya's smirk revealed just how amused she was by the whole thing as she popped a tiny cake into her mouth. While she laid before the fire, Gendry was stretching out his sore muscles after a long day of work.

"I've done well for myself, then, Princess Arya." This earned Gendry a glare that he laughed off. "Who would have thought an unnamed bastard might rise so high?"

On her second day at Dragonstone, Arya didn't behave like the princess Daenerys had named her. Instead, she had swapped out her carefully crafted leather doublet, fur cape, and sound boots for the thin, disposable, easily mad garments the mine workers wore.

She shivered all the way down the long walkway from Daenerys' castle to the beach, even with Gendry's arm wrapped tight around her. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"You said you would teach me," Arya said, just a little indignant at Gendry's protectiveness. "I want to help Jon as much as I can, too."

Arya wanted to learn about the dragon glass. Not just the smelting and smithing she had watched Gendry perform the day before. For some reason, she felt the need to know these strange weapons inside and out. Perhaps it was because she knew nothing of their enemies, other than the information she had gathered from the others' stories and Bran's visions.

Control. That's what it was about, if she were being honest. Arya felt the same desire for control that Sansa did, though Sansa expressed her desire through her tight, heavy dresses and making herself Jon's shadow. Arya found it here in garb that matched Gendry's, in a cave that was muggy and warm from all the bodies working in it.

"Is your highborn gal here to get her jollies with us working slum?" One of the workers jabbed at Arya, though he kept his gaze above her head to meet Gendry's eyes. Arya glared at him and Gendry shook his head. Daenerys had put him in charge as the overseer of this dragon glass endeavor, though he tended not to shove his weight around.

"She's highborn, yes, but she'll slit you open just as happily as she'll mine with us today. No one is to give Arya any trouble…unless you want to answer to Queen Daenerys. Arya is the queen's guest, and sister of the King in the North. I can't imagine you would want either unhappy with you."

There was little doubt that the workers knew exactly who Arya was. She had the Stark look about her, after all, and had sailed in under the direwolf sigil flying on the flags of the ship. Still, Gendry's reprimanding took the disdainful eyes of the men off Arya, even if they did grumble as they turned away.

Arya heard Gendry's sigh before placing a little ax into her hands. "Remember to be gentle. The dragon glass is stupidly easy to break until it is forged. I need as many big pieces as we can get to work with."

She liked the work, but then, Arya always had liked anything that kept her from sitting quietly inside. The rhythm of swinging the ax stretched her shoulders and back in ways she wasn't used to, even when sword-fighting. Thanks to the firelight all along the walls, it was easy to distinguish the dark rock from the darker dragon glass.

While the rock was dull—only ever reflecting light in spots where precipitation had managed to accumulate—the dragon glass shimmered and shone. Arya couldn't help but wonder, in a privately teasing way, if the black, shining rock brought the thought of Jon's eyes to Daenerys' mind.

Those two were not nearly as subtle as they thought they were.

Arya lost herself so fully in her new work that Gendry's hand on her elbow several hours later startled her. He had placed her hand there to give her pause, but it startled her enough to make her jump.

"Hey, now!" Gendry said with an easy laugh. She wasn't sure if the dampness of his shirt and cropped hair was from perspiration or the dreary, misting rain that had started to fall outside.

When she had jumped, her ax had come very close to Gendry's face, nearly grazing his cheek.

"Sorry," she mumbled, her own cheeks beginning to redden. His own ruddy cheeks were lifted in a smile, though.

"Want to see the armory? Sam was asking about it."

Gendry led the way to the armory of dragon glass weapons she would be taking back to Winterfell with her in just a handful of days. If ever a weapon could be called beautiful, dragon glass blades would earn the name. The way the dragon glass, black as night, glittered in the light of the torch was almost mesmerizing.

"It's said White Walkers die as soon as the dragon glass pierces their skin," Sam had told them, the excitement evident in his voice. "Jon's sword is Valyrian steel, and so is that dagger you've got, Lady Arya. Brienne of Tarth and Jaime Lannister are also in possession of Valyrian steel. Between all of the Valyrian blades and Gendry's dragon glass weapons, we shouldn't be too bad off!"

While Sam was in good spirits, Gendry had also told Arya the story of Daenerys' third dragon, Viserion, falling to the White Walkers. Jon was confident, Sam was confident, even Daenerys was confident. Still, sometimes the thought of facing off against something so inhuman—something that could fell a dragon—plagued Arya's sleep at night.

Not that she would ever reveal that. Jon needed her, and that's all that mattered.

Besides, she had no room for thoughts of the impending White Walkers when she was warm and there were sweet things to eat and Gendry to be with.

* * *

"How do you think it will end?" Gendry was tired down to his bones, but Arya's big blue eyes shining brightly in the firelight of his room displayed that she was _not_.

"How am I supposed to know that?" He whispered back to her. Arya fitted so well into his arms. Her bare skin was soft and warm against his.

Though he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, Gendry ducked his head to kiss her temple. "Isn't your brother the one with the Sight?"

"Bran isn't going to tell us anything." She said it in the same grumpy little voice he remembered from all of those years ago, when the two of them were on the road together.

"Queen Daenerys will be on the Iron Throne," Gendry told her sleepily. He had used the last of his energy for the day making love to Arya. _Princess_ _Arya_. Thinking about the title Daenerys casually bestowed upon Arya made him smirk.

"That's what your supposed to say, though, isn't it?" Arya asked, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Her breath washed over his skin, sending a tingling sensation through his body that he was too exhausted to appreciate.

"Then Jon will be on the Iron Throne." When he rolled onto his side, Gendry took Arya with him. She giggled as he tucked her into him, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her close.

"Jon doesn't _want_ the Iron Throne."

"Then we'll all die." The mixture of frustration and teasing in Gendry's voice made Arya laugh louder than she meant to. She quieted herself by hiding her face in the crook of Gendry's elbow.

"That's what your queen's lady-in-waiting says, isn't it? _Valar morghulis_?"

Gendry had already slipped into sleep, his breathes coming deeply and evenly against Arya's ear. Though she wasn't yet tired, Arya laid still under the comforting weight of Gendry's arm.

 _We'll join our houses_ , she mouthed her father's words from years earlier to herself. Back then, they had turned her stomach, as had her sister's obsession with the pathetic oaf that had been Joffrey Baratheon. Now the words made her smile. She liked how the words tasted in her own mouth. _Arya and Gendry._

Arya snuggled herself closer to Gendry—if that was even possible—and closed her eyes. In her travels, she had seen a place or two that was beautiful…when she wasn't running, hiding, or fighting for her life. Warm and safe in Gendry's arms was the first place in a long time that Arya _loved_ to be.

* * *

 **A/N:** School starts again tomorrow for me, so I thought some Gendrya fluff was in order to console me from the sad, sad thought of homework! I truly just love these two.


	13. War Path

**War Path**

It had finally happened. The Northern army was forced to Dragonstone, to meet with Daenerys' army before they all journeyed South. The catalyst had been Tormund and a few other wildlings, running for their lives for the gates of Winterfell, a terrible tale on their lips.

Jon had commanded that they all leave almost before Tormund finished his telling of Viserion, raised from his icy grave to be the Night King's mount.

"I can't rightfully say that we lost them," Tormund had said. "I don't know where they are…I don't know how long we have."

Never had Jon seen a group of people move so quickly. Sansa called out directives, Arya loaded Bran's lap with things because—"Your arms still work, you can hold things, Brandon."

They were loaded onto the fleet in what Jon figured was under an hour. They were at Dragonstone within two days' time. There had been no time to send a raven to Daenerys, to alert her of their arrival. Jon wondered if they wouldn't have been able to beat the raven there, anyway.

After all, they had sailed in such a rush that they nearly forgot Winterfell's newest resident, Jaime Lannister. Jon had to jump into the shallows and run back to retrieve Jaime from his dungeon stay.

"We could…stay here?" Varys had ventured during Tormund's retelling for Daenerys. "These dead men do not cross water. Or, at least, that is what we believe, yes? We are currently on an island…"

Tormund had thrown an uneasy look at Jon. He had not told the piece of Viserion. Jon took a deep breath.

"That may be true for most of them," Jon said. "But, there's been a complication."

Rather than say it outright, in front of all, Jon leaned close to Daenerys to whisper in her ear.

"I'm sorry, Dany. Your dragon, Viserion, has been raised from death to be the Night King's mount."

As he stepped away, Daenerys' face crumpled briefly. Despite all the people, every member of their conjoined councils in the room, Daenerys reached out and clutched Jon's hand. She held it tightly in her own as she explained to Varys, in a shaking voice, why they couldn't simply stay at Dragonstone and let the world fall to hell around them.

"Viserion was not my biggest dragon, but we do not know how he has been changed by the Night King's magic. This revelation does not bode well for us and our current numbers. We must stay ahead of the White Walkers, if we can manage it. We sail in the morning."

The queen had spoken, yet there was a pause within the room. In the silence, Daenerys simply raised one of her eyebrows and leveled her gaze at their council. That was all it took to inspire those around Daenerys and Jon into action.

Tyrion and Missandei began handing out jobs to people. Those assigned a job scurried away to complete it as quickly as possible.

It also left the two monarchs alone in Daenerys' strategizing room. Daenerys still had a tight hold on Jon's hand. Now, she pulled it against her chest, drawing Jon closer to her, too. She laid her head upon his shoulder.

Her soft sobs were short-lived. Jon barely had time to wrap his free arm around her before Daenerys took a shaky, steadying breath. He did untangle his hand from hers, so that he could cup her face and wipe her tears away.

"It was bad enough that Viserion died," Daenerys whispered. Their faces were so close that her words fell softly on Jon's own mouth.

"I know," Jon whispered back. Even knowing what he knew, Jon found himself unable to resist the urge to close the gap between them to kiss Daenerys softly—chastely—on the lips.

He wanted only to erase the sadness from her face.

Which, Jon figured, is why he said yes to spending this solidary night at Dragonstone with Daenerys. He couldn't stand to tell her no when her heart was so surely shattered once again over this particular dragon.

However, Jon found it so entirely impossible to say that two-letter word to Daenerys that he soon found himself in her chambers, in her bathtub. She had piled her white hair on top of her head and it tickled Jon's neck as she leaned back against him.

"I imagine it will be a long time until we are so warm again," Daenerys said softly, letting herself sink chin-deep into the water.

"You should be plenty warm in the cloak Sansa made you," came Jon's murmured reply.

Daenerys carried on as if she had not heard him. "I imagine it will be a long time until we are so alone again, as well."

Jon's sigh felt like it came from his bones. All of this was entirely wrong. He wondered how the gods had not yet struck him down. If Jaime Lannister were any example, though, this sin was an easy one to fall into. After all, even now, Tyrion told reports of Cersei once again pregnant with her brother's child.

No need to hide the fact when you're the Mad Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"I don't know," Jon tried to tease. "I've never been much committed to the nomadic life."

There had been Ygritte, of course, but that was different than the Khalasar Daenerys had properly called home.

"Everyone is always there," Daenerys mused, lifting Jon's hand from the water. She watched the steam rise from his skin in the chilly air of her chambers. Her dragons were surely nested somewhere outside, and Ghost slumbered close to the fire. "There are no secrets."

"There are always secrets," Jon whispered.

"Oh? Have you any good ones?"

She said it lightly, with a giggle in her voice. Though she had no way of knowing, Jon's secret sat like a heavy stone in the base of his throat. He nearly choked on it daily. Instead of setting it free, he forced his own voice into lightness.

"Not yet, but perhaps Jaime Lannister will be in a sharing mood. He must know better secrets than Tyrion, I would bet."

When Daenerys rose from the bath, Jon helped her dry her skin before the fire. Ghost barely peeked one red eye at them. He was more than used to the Targaryen girl being around his master.

Luckily for Jon, he need not try to resist his sin further. Queen Daenerys simply wanted to sleep, one last time, in the ancestral home she was being forced to leave so soon after winning it back.

"Come lay with me, Jon Snow." She said it so innocently that Jon could find no harm.

Surely it was no sin to share a bed with someone. Even if the someone you shared with slept more or less on top of you.

Daenerys' head rested over his heart. One leg was hooked around his hip. While Daenerys slumbered, Jon played with pieces of her hair, lifting strands just to watch them float back down to the bed.

Before he forced himself into sleep himself, Jon placed a soft kiss on Daenerys' forehead.

* * *

"Does my brother really need to ride with his hands bound, Sansa?" Tyrion had lead his horse close to Sansa's. He was surprised that they had enough for everyone. Some of the wildlings had taken the Stark cavalry south, waiting along the shores for the rest of the forces to make landfall.

"Merely a week ago, he was aligned with your sister, was he not?" Sansa sat on her horse as all highborn girls did—a ramrod straight back, side-saddle, her head forward and her face demure. She sent a sidelong glance to Tyrion and raised an eyebrow.

"I've also heard reports that he tried to shoot your queen down from the sky." The sigh Tyrion let out burst from his mouth in a cloud of white in the cold air. Jon had left Sansa in charge of Jaime Lannister, as he was too preoccupied with maps and stratagems to pay attention to their supposed new ally.

"If you had been there at the meeting, you would have understood," Tyrion said sourly. "You know Cersei."

That seemed to be all the explanation Tyrion thought he needed to prove his point. Sansa had known Cersei indeed, and she also knew the hold she held over her twin. She found it hard to believe that control had dissipated entirely in such a short time.

"You've never seen them, have you?" Tyrion asked when Sansa gave no reply. "These dead men?"

"…No." Came her eventual reply.

"Gods help you when you do." Tyrion glanced forward, to where Jon and Daenerys led the caravan. With her white head of hair, Daenerys nearly blended in with the snow all around. She was surrounded by Unsullied and Dothraki.

Sansa guessed Tyrion must have judged Daenerys to be safe, with her soldiers on one side and Jon on the other, because he turned his horse to head toward the back of their numbers, where Jaime rode.

Her heart constricted slightly to watch him go. Sansa didn't want one of her few true friends angry with her but…she had already given her decision concerning Jaime. It wouldn't do to have her, the Lady of Winterfell, flip-flopping on her word. Even if her word was only important because Jon said so, now that he was back in their presence.

King in the North. The words were still sour in her mouth. Never had it mattered to her that Jon was a bastard, not a true Stark, until now.

Sansa was sure, if anyone had bothered with legalities, that the title should have been hers by birthright. This should have been a war of Queens, in her opinion.

* * *

"They called it the Battle of the Bastards," little Lady Mormont had grown fond of Arya Stark. She preferred to ride alongside her towards the middle of the caravan, along with Bran Stark and the blacksmith named Gendry. "I'm told you witnessed it?"

"Not firsthand," Bran said plainly. Though Sansa road ahead of them, she often turned back to check on and fuss over Bran. He had his special saddle, completed just before they had to flee, but Sansa insisted on checking the straps that held his legs in place several times a day.

"I can assure you, it was better firsthand. Watching your brother ride onto that field solidified him as King in the North in my mind."

"Sansa told me she won the battle," Arya said. Her gray eyes matched the winter skies above. Lady Mormont gave a hearty laugh, her mirth appearing in foggy puffs before her.

"She no more won that battle than I did. She may have fed Ramsay Bolton to hounds, but she didn't leave that field covered in the blood of her allies and enemies like your brother."

This little group was mostly merry. The icy winds pinked their cheeks, at did their smiles and laughs. Lady Mormont found Arya to be similar to Jon, and good company. Arya herself was happy to be back with family, and Gendry was happy that Arya was happy.

Only Bran fought a war behind his carefully composed expressions. Every moment of the day, he itched to use his Sight. He feared what he would see there more than he feared the dead men who marched some ways behind them.


	14. Skirmish

**Skirmish**

The first battle that the Northern forces encountered was one of friendly fire.

It started with Arya saying, "Gendry, watch this!" and lobbing a quickly made snowball at Jon's head.

The King in the North had his head turned at the time, watching the horizon with Tormund and trying to decide the best path to take. Many of the known landmarks had been covered under deep drifts of snow. Arya's snowball connected with the back of Jon's head, white exploding against his black hair.

To Arya's great amusement, Jon turned on his heel so quickly that he sent up a spray of snow around him. His hand also flew to his head, coming back with snow streaked across his gloved fingers. Arya couldn't help the smile that spread across her face and incriminated her.

"You think you're funny, Little Arya?" It was a left-over, family nickname, one Ned had given her when even Rickon, the baby of the family, had grown as tall as she had. Little Arya did think she was funny—after just three days of cold wind and white, snowy landscapes, she had grown bored.

Unfortunately for Arya, she was laughing too much to realize that Jon had already scooped snow into his hands in retaliation. Tormund forgotten, Jon launched his own snowball, effectively hitting his littlest sister in the chest.

"Jon!" Arya yelled, swiping the snow spray from her face and mouth. That was all it took to set a Northern king and princess running through the snow. Arya ducked first behind Gendry, who laughed and held his hands up in surrender, though he didn't move from his place of protection while Arya gathered more snow.

After throwing her next snowball over Gendry's shoulder, Arya was off again, ducking and weaving between the stalled horses. Jon left Tormund behind him, the wildling shaking his head after the monarch.

"If I get hit, I'll smother you," Sansa told her little sister with a delicate sniff. Despite the caravan's 'good' fortune of finding whole castles and small villages abandoned to camp in, Sansa seemed to be on a mission to let everyone know how put out she was that the deep snow was making their travel so slow.

"I thought Cersei and Littlefinger would teach you better strategies than that," Arya jabbed back. Jon had not yet caught up with her. She scanned her options, her eyes falling on Sam. He was talking animatedly at Bran, and Arya made a beeline for him.

Under the cover of Sam's back, Arya quickly loaded her arms with as many snowballs as she could. Arya was light on her feet, despite the snow giving under weight and sinking her down to her knees in particularly deep areas.

Jon was taller, longer-legged, and had an easier time breaking a path through the snow, so that he caught up with Arya after she ran from Sam. Arya threw he snowballs in quick succession, hitting Jon mostly on the torso. It did little to slow him down.

"I'll get you, Arya!" He hollered over the winter winds. Arya's fleeing had led them out of the cover of the trees they had stopped in. Out in the open, the wind whipped their hair all about and pierced through their layers of clothing. Night must have been approaching.

Even as he ran toward his sister, Jon thought that they would soon have to turn back to the village for another night. The loss of progress made would have to be sacrificed for shelter through the night. A few miles were nothing compared to the loss of life that was sure to happen in the elements.

Judging the distance left between them, Jon threw himself the last couple of feet, tackling Arya into a deep drift. They fell softly through the snow, all of it providing a cushion for Arya so that Jon's tackle did her no harm.

Their laughter was drowned out by the howling of the wind, but Jon's signature black attire against the snow gave their position away. Sansa came walking gingerly through the drifts, holding her skirts in her hands.

"You two will catch your death of cold out here," Sansa shouted. "Lord Tyrion is already having the others turn back!"

Jon hauled Arya to her feet by grabbing hold of her elbow. Both of them shook the snow from their cloaks, smiling all the while.

"The cold is the way of the North!" Arya shouted back to Sansa. "It's in our blood! It can't kill us!"

As they walked back to Sansa, Arya slipped her hand into Jon's, as she had done when she was much smaller. That gesture rooted Jon to the North, where he had always felt he belonged, even with his bastard raising.

Sansa tsk-ed over both of them, knocking stray bits of snow out of their hair. She turned daintily in the snow and began to lead the way back.

"We're making slow progress," Sansa said, not bothering to look back at Jon. Next to him, Arya pulled a face, mouthing the words Sansa had just said in mockery. Jon had to smother his laugh with his free hand.

"I can't control the weather, Sansa," he said once he recovered. "We'll just have to push through as well as we can."

"Do we not have dragons at our disposal? Do dragons not breathe fire?" Her words made Arya's eyebrows raise. Jon understood immediately. Sansa wanted to use the dragons to melt the snow, to clear a path, to make travel easier.

"That's not a terrible idea."

"They're not our dragons," Jon muttered into the wind. "You'll have to ask Daenerys about that."

Even with her back to them, Jon could practically see Sansa's eye roll.

"Or I suppose you could ask your Lord Tyrion. He is Hand to the Queen, is he not?" His teasing made Sansa's back stiffen. She turned her head enough to throw Jon a look, her icy blue eyes colder than the snow he played in with Arya.

Now both Jon and Arya were trying to stifle their laughter with gloved hands and furred cloaks.


	15. Progress

**Progress**

Winter had definitely come to the Seven Kingdoms, and it was not easy. According to reports from Jaime Lannister, snow had fallen on King's Landing the night he deflected from Cersei.

Knowing there was likely no end to the white landscapes they had grown accustomed to was not easy for Jon and Daenerys' joined forces.

Sometimes the winds were so piercing that Jon insisted Arya ride with Gendry, for fear the icy currents would freeze his little sister where she sat in her saddle. It was hard for him to force the words out for the first time—though he liked Gendry, wrapping his head around Arya being old enough to be involved with a young man was hard.

She had just been a little girl when he had gifted Needle to her. Now he was commanding her to openly ride with her illegitimate royal lover.

"She is so small," Jon had said to Gendry. "Arya will be warmer if you ride together."

And she was warmer, sitting just in front of Gendry in the saddle, his arms wrapped around her and her back flush to his chest. Arya was small enough, in fact, that Gendry was able to rest his head just over hers as they rode on.

"I think your sister might like to murder me in my sleep," Gendry whispered close to Arya's ear. The ever-howling winds made it hard to hear one another unless you were close together.

Sansa had turned her nose up at their new arrangement and led her horse away from her usual place close to Bran. She headed forward in the ranks, and Arya knew without continuing to look that she was going to go argue with Jon.

She could hear her sister's snippy voice in her head. Arya could ride with you and be just as warm, Jon. You're making her a public spectacle.

Like their ragtag army of Wildlings, Dothraki, Unsullied, Northern and Targaryen loyalists resembled anything close to a royal court with eyes always trained for social missteps.

"Oh, Jon wouldn't let her. She's not as dangerous as she likes to think, anyway."

"Tell me about your adventures without me, Little Princess Lady Arya." For no other reason than to bring out that expression where Arya scowled at him while her cheeks puffed with barely contained laughs, Gendry liked to combine all the names used for her. It annoyed Arya to no end, even if it did make her laugh.

"I didn't know it was going to be story time, riding with you." She turned in her seat to see Gendry's barely-contained yawn. Now that she was so close to him, Arya could see the purple smudges beneath his tired eyes.

"Talk to me, so I stay awake." Though there was the link between Arya and Gendry, he technically fell beneath the category of Daenerys' ranks. Arya wondered how many nights had been taken from Gendry by guard duty under the Dragon Queen's orders.

"Do not fall asleep out here, Gendry." Arya fitted her hands over his where they rested on the reins and gave them a squeeze. To fall asleep in these elements was a death sentence.

"I won't, so long as you talk to me." So, Arya did, though the constant icy winds made her throat ache to do so.

"Sansa calls it my adventures, but a lot of it wasn't fun…" She begins to prattle on. Arya tells Gendry of travelling with the Hound, who now rides a little ahead of them in the line. "They call it the Red Wedding now, in the stories."

"And that's how the Frey's ended up on your old bedtime prayer, eh?" Arya was certain the stinging winds covered the rush of heat in her cheeks, and she was glad for it. When she didn't answer, she felt the lazy, sleepy laugh rumble through Gendry's chest.

"Don't think I didn't hear you. Hot Pie thought you were crazy. Tell me more."

"I went to Braavos, after I left the Hound." She shot Gendry a look over her shoulder. "I learned to become no one there, and I would gladly do it again if it meant you would stop laying unnecessary titles on me."

Gendry's chuckled response came close to her ear. His breath was warm as it washed over her face, sending a different kind of chill through her. He nipped her ear before speaking.

"Whatever you say, m'lady." She didn't smack him, though she would have liked to, only because she was fairly certain that his exhaustion would send him falling from their shared saddle.

* * *

Arya stayed close to Gendry even as they settled into an abandoned castle for the night.

"I think this occurrence has become too common to merely call it luck," Tyrion mused, throwing another somewhat soggy log into the fire. The moisture hissed out of it before it slowly turned to flame.

Jaime Lannister was only released from his chains when they were inside. Two Dothraki followed him wherever he went, despite his being a prisoner of the North.

"Likely, little brother, they are in King's Landing. I would think our sister made them pretty, empty promises to get as many bodies between herself and the dead threat as possible." He seemed to know his place. He only spoke to Tyrion and Brienne unprompted. Otherwise, Jaime did not speak until spoken to.

"You might want to keep that one far from her sights," Jaime continued, inclining his head to where Arya Stark sat close beside Gendry. "Don't tell me you can't see Good King Robert in that boy."

Before Tyrion could say anything of Gendry, Sansa appeared, pressing a bowl of the stew that had become a staple of their diet into his hands. Even here on the warpath, Sansa wore the bracelet Tyrion had gifted her. The firelight caught the blue stones, making it shine on her wrist.

"Your queen has asked me to remind you that you can't continue skipping meals, my Lord Tyrion."

"My Lord Tyrion," Jaime mimicked softly once the redheaded girl had returned to her family. "Looks like you've got your little Stark wife back, brother."

"Leave her be," Tyrion grumbled over his stew. He had been skipping meals, giving his provisions to the brother beside him, when his initial journey North had weakened him. Tyrion highly doubted Daenerys noticed his habit of going without food, what with how wrapped up she usually was with Jon Snow or her handmaiden, Missandei.

No. It was much more likely that this gentle reminder had come straight from Sansa herself.

* * *

When shelter could be found, everyone piled up to sleep. The remaining Starks made sure to stick together.

Jon always insisted Bran take the bed of whatever room they were in. They all knew, with his deadened legs, it was harder for him to keep warm.

"Jon, I would be fine. You or Arya take it for once." But Jon never listened to Bran's protests. He would hook one arm under his little brother's knees, the other wrapping around his waist, and lift Bran from his chair. He was hardly in a position to put up a fight beyond the verbal refusals to Jon's insistence.

"We're fine by the fire," Jon would always tell him. And they were. Never once did Arya nor Jon complain about sleeping with little more than their cloaks and a meager fire. They both agreed, without either ever saying a word, that all available bedding should go to Bran, to protect him from the cold.

Sansa always joined Bran, under the guise of 'helping warm the bed'. It was something Old Nan used to tell them, when the Northern nights were chilly but not cold enough to justify a fire in each room. She would pair the children up: Robb and Jon, Sansa and Arya, Bran and Rickon.

Old Nan would tuck the blankets in so tight, it made them all giggle. She had been right, though. None of the Stark children ever complained of cold or fell sick when Old Nan made them share beds. It drove Catelyn crazy, of course, to see her oldest son slumber beside the bastard child, but looking back on it all, Jon was fairly certain that was one of the reasons Old Nan did it.

While Sansa and Bran slept in the bed, Arya and Jon would take to the floor.

"You take a turn close to the fire," Arya would whisper to Jon, though she knew her pleading was futile. "We can't have you sick, Jon."

"You're so little, the heat of the flames goes right over you. I'm never cold, Arya." He truly wasn't. Her little body, curled against her back, was like a conduit for the warmth. Jon and Arya slept the way she used to sleep on the road with Gendry: back to back, curled tight next to each other.

Arya considered the roof above their heads, wooden floors beneath their bodies, and the addition of their heavy cloaks a huge improvement over those nights long ago. There was no rain to soak her from above, no mud to soak her from below. To top it off, what remained of her family was there, so that she need not worry in feverish dreams where they might be.

Now, rather than her list of people to kill, Arya whispers their father's words to herself before sleep: When the snow falls, and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

Ghost always kept watch at the door, his big body curled so tightly into the threshold that Jon doubted anyone would be able to even open it.

* * *

Jon and Arya's teasing Sansa seemed to have a positive effect. She must have spoken to Tyrion, as Sansa wasn't one to address Daenerys directly. One morning, the Starks woke to a scorched path that seemed to stretch for miles.

"That's the right direction, isn't it?" Daenerys asked Jon and Tormund, ringing her gloved hands. "I can have Drogon and Rhaegal clear another path if it's not, but everyone should go back inside first."

The two dragons were certainly a useful tool, though many of their forces did not trust the beasts. More than once, Jon had caught Jaime glancing worriedly at the sky while they roamed overhead.

Tormund closed one eye and held a hand out, thumb up, and judged the burned path. "That's straighter than I thought it would be. Yeah, it's in the right direction. Did you see anything while you were up there?"

Daenerys shook her head, causing her hood to fall off. "I looked. Nothing that I could see behind or ahead. Nothing left or right. Nothing in the sky."

Thanks to Jaime's intel, they knew they needed to be looking for Cersei's forces as well as the Night King's.

"I'm glad we sailed when we did. Meeting Euron Greyjoy's ships would have only slowed us down. We better move while we can, before the snow fills in our path again." Jon raised a hand and motioned with his fingers for his people to move.

Sansa stood from her snowy seat and pulled Bran's little sled behind her. Gendry pulled Arya and Lady Mormont from the snow, where they had made a game of jumping onto banks and seeing which would hold their weight.

Jon and Tormund secured Bran into his saddle while Sansa tutted over him. "It doesn't hurt getting in and out of that contraption, does it? I almost wonder if it wouldn't be better to have Ghost pull your sled."

This made Jon laugh, his amusement puffing in white mist in front of his face. "I'm not sure we would see Bran again if Ghost pulled him."

Though Ghost always returned at night to guard his master as he slept, when they woke each morning to move forward, the direwolf ran off to hunt or play or whatever it was he did to pass the time. Unless he had his face turned toward you, so that you might see his red eyes and black nose, it was impossible to see Ghost against the snow.

"That's your own fault for not training him better," Sansa snipped, though she still accepted Jon's hand as she swung into her own saddle. Once Sansa was saddled, Jon easily lifted Arya's light weight and tossed her onto the back of her horse, making Arya laugh.

"Not all things can be trained as easily as humans can," Arya told their sister. Her little jab started a bickering between the two, which Jon was glad he was allowed to walk away from, since he made a point of riding on the front lines of their caravan.

At the head of their forces, Jon found Daenerys waiting for him, her horse moved to the left to leave room for his own.

"Will you go with me next time?" She asked in a voice so quiet, Jon may have thought he imagined it, were it not for the puffs of her breath before her face.

"Go with you where?" Jon asked, his dark brows drawing together. Where else was there for them to go besides forward?

"With the dragons, to burn a path. I…I don't want to go alone again with Viserion…with what we know."

Daenerys did not meet his eye, instead staring at her fingers running through the fur on the inside of her cloak.

"I don't think I'll be much use," he said, not because he was refusing her, but because it was the truth and he didn't know what else to say.

"I don't want to go alone." Daenerys said it in a voice that made her sound like a sad little girl. "Drogon liked you, remember? He let you pet him. I don't think he would mind. I wouldn't send you on Rhaegal, by yourself."

Despite the fear that reared up inside of Jon at the thought of riding on a dragon's back, he nodded. With her eyes still downcast, however, Daenerys didn't see his agreement.

"I'll go with you, Dany." He had hoped, if he used the nickname she didn't like more often, it might help him to distance himself from her. Unfortunately for Jon, the gratitude in her blue eyes and the bright smile on her face spoke against his hopes.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi, friends! I hope you are still enjoying this story :) I had a lot of ideas pop into my head at once, all short little snippets, so I decided to put them all together in this chapter. Here's another thing I want to see in the show, coming up probably next chapter: Jon riding a dragon.


	16. Dragon Rider

**Dragon Rider**

"He's really going to do it," Sansa mumbled. "Our brother is an idiot."

The two Stark sisters crowded one of the castle windows, so they could see the dragons on the ground in front of them. When Daenerys raised her hand to signal for them, they both swooped low and settled themselves in the snow.

"He's not going alone, is he?" Arya asked, worry and fear rising up her throat despite herself. There were laughs behind the girls.

"Only Targaryens are true dragon riders, Lady Arya," one of the Northern lords said behind her. She didn't bother to turn to see who it was.

Down on the ground, Daenerys ran her hand over the snout of each dragon. Almost like overgrown, scaly dogs, the dragons nuzzled their faces against her touch. The pale haired girl turned to Jon, and though no one could make out what she said, it prompted him to raise his own hand and pat the dragons in turn.

"He's going to be burnt to a crisp!" Sansa's voice was becoming hysterical, like it used to when Jon and Robb went out of their way to annoy her by hiding her hair ribbons and holding her dolls above her head. Arya had a sneaking suspicion Sansa wasn't so worried about Jon's safety as she was furious he hadn't listened to her.

When Arya raised her hand to her mouth to bite her thumb, a tell of her nervousness that Gendry knew well, he laid a warm and reassuring hand on her shoulder. "He'll be okay. Tormund and the others rode that bigger one, remember? I don't think Ser Davos will ever get tired of telling that story."

Arya leaned into Gendry's touch much the same way the dragons had leaned into Daenerys'. "He really likes to tell about how you missed all the fun and had to run back on your own to the wall."

She held onto Gendry's hand while the crowds at the windows watched Daenerys climb between the larger dragon's shoulders. Despite Ser Davos' retellings, everyone was fascinated by the idea of Jon Snow, King in the North, a non-Targaryen, willingly riding a dragon.

Everyone except for Bran, of course. Sansa had offered to wheel him to the window, but he refused her. Instead, he sat comfortably by the fire, watching everyone else as they acted in a thick coat of irony. _If only they knew._

Daenerys reached a hand out to Jon. At Arya and Sansa's feet, Ghost whined. Sansa stroked his ears in an effort to soothe him, unsure how to convey to the beast that his master would—hopefully—be unscathed.

Three windows down, the Lannister brothers were a near replica of the Stark sisters. Besides the direwolf, the main difference seemed to be the wooden crate Jaime had slid beneath the windowsill, so that Tyrion could see from the high window easily.

"Remember those drawings Cersei used to make?" Tyrion said softly as Jon settled behind Daenerys on Drogon's back. "When she was set on marrying Rhaegar."

For the first time since Tyrion had seen Jaime outside of King's Landing, the older Lannister nearly smiled. "The two of them riding a dragon."

They danced around the things that they each knew they would soon have to face. Both of their betrayals to House Lannister. The impending war. The baby.

"Even you used to make fun of her for that silly thought. _'Dragons don't exist anymore, sis. Or have you forgotten?'_ Now look at us, watching dragons."

There was a moment where everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath. Drogon craned his neck backward to sniff both Daenerys and Jon. Sansa tipped forward, as if she needed to be on her tiptoes to see the scene better. Arya gripped Gendry's hand so tightly that he thought it might break. A pensive look passed between the Lannister brothers.

* * *

 _This is it_ , Jon couldn't help but think while looking Drogon dead in the eye. _This is how I die for the last time_.

The breath that washed over Jon's face reminded him of the smoky heat of a hearth fire. After a heartbeat, though it felt much longer, Drogon seemed to approve of Jon's presence and turned his head.

And then Jon was reminding himself that, if what Bran had told him were really true, he had no reason to fear the dragon. Surely a beast in service to one Targaryen would not burn another carrying the same blood.

"Hold on to his scales, like I am," Daenerys whispered back to Jon. "It's almost like riding a horse bareback."

Even through his gloves, Jon could feel the rough scales pressing into his palms. Rhaegal sat calmly beside them, seeming to wait for Drogon to make a move he could follow.

When Drogon lifted his wings, and his body followed in tandem, Jon was fairly certain his stomach was going to fall out of his body. There was a terrible sinking and then rising sensation as the dragon left the ground below and the adrenaline-fueled blood began to rage in Jon's veins.

Jon had thought that the wind was cold down on the ground. Despite his Northern upbringing, he was severely wrong—he had no idea what cold was until he was in the skies on Drogon's back.

It was also harder to hear Daenerys, with so much wind in his ears. He almost missed what she was saying to him.

"…didn't see him fall. I do not know that he would recognize that Viserion is no longer like himself and Drogon. I can't risk Rhaegal flying toward Viserion, thinking his brother was back to play."

Daenerys truly did view the beasts as her own natural children. She spoke of them the same way a mother would.

"I mean, I can't very well stop a dragon." Despite those words, Daenerys seemed to be having a fine time controlling these two. It was obvious to Jon now that Drogon was not only the largest dragon, but also the one in the lead. Where he went, Rhaegal followed. For now, the dragons were following each other in lazy circles, which Jon didn't doubt was for his own benefit, so he could get accustomed to them.

"No," Jon murmured in reply. Most of his attention was on the castle below him, which he would have called 'large' or 'sprawling' from the ground. With his aerial view, however, the only word he seemed able to conjure was 'tiny'. "I don't suppose you can."

Daenerys must have known that his presence was little more than comfort for herself. If Viserion and the Night King were to make an appearance, Jon hadn't a clue what kind of measly defenses they might be able to raise for themselves.

Jon knew he was meant to be keeping an eye out for three things: The Night King, wrights, and the edges of King's Landing. Even with their careful map keeping, it was impossible to truly judge the distance they had travelled as the landscape was so often uniformly white.

What Jon was doing instead, though, was just looking around. The trees below were little more than dots. Never had Jon thought that he would be so close to clouds. Somehow, even with the icy winds feeling as if they were cutting him to his bones, Jon wasn't all that cold.

He thought she might have sighed, but he couldn't be too sure, with all the wind in his ears. What Jon did know was that Daenerys leaned forward, almost like she was whispering to Drogon, and uttered a word he had never heard before.

 _Dracarys._

Beneath his own body, Jon felt a rumble move through Drogon's. A flash of heat could be felt even through the dragon's thick scales, and then that same heat was cutting through the deep snow on the ground.

Rhaegal followed behind them, clearing patches were the winds blew Drogon's flames askew and snow was missed.

Jon had never felt anything hotter than Drogon's fiery breath moving up the dragon's body, and yet he was unharmed, kept safe by Drogon's flesh. Or perhaps his own Targaryen blood. He was unsure which.

The path they cleared was only a handful of miles long. It had become harder to distinguish day from night, though Ghost of all creatures seemed to still be able to track the time. He returned to Jon every day at approximately sundown. That's how the forces marked their time to hunker down for the night.

Even with the dragon-cleared paths, it was hard to make much progress with the severe cold. The houses must be stopped every couple miles to have the ice broken from their snouts, lest they suffocate. It seemed the dragons and Ghost were unaffected by the weather.

Somehow, Jon felt their time in the air was simultaneously seconds and hours long. His mind said _finally_ as Drogon swooped down to the ground, settling on the blackened grass he had uncovered with his flames. Another part of Jon, somewhere deep in his middle, said _not yet_.

Jon's legs met the ground shakily. Numbly, more out of habit than anything, he raised his hand to help Daenerys dismount. He hardly felt her hand in his—it was not until Arya collided into his side that he truly felt steady again.

"Arya!" His tone was scolding. Though he doubted it would do any good, he curved himself around this little sister of his to shield her from the dragons at his back. "You were supposed to stay inside."

With a roll of her eyes, Arya dismissed Jon's words. "I was around them all the time at Dragonstone. They're no more frightening than Ghost."

Trust Arya not to fear dragons.

"If they are not frightening, what are you doing out here?" Jon was certain the reddening of her cheeks had more to do with her embarrassment at being caught than it did with the cold.

Instead, Arya turned her eyes to Daenerys. "I mean no distrust, Your Grace. It is only that I have not seen anyone other than yourself, a Targaryen, ride a dragon. Even with Ser Davos' stories…some of us were not sure it was possible. There was quite a stir, inside."

Over Arya's head, Jon could see Sansa scowling in the doorway. At her side, Tyrion mimed clapping, giving Jon a much more appreciative look than Sansa was managing.

Jon could hardly believe it himself.

That he had ridden that dragon.

And he wanted to do it again.

Maybe there was more to this Targaryen blood Bran claimed he had than Jon had originally thought.


End file.
